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TannerBradley

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  1. FINAL PART --- Whispers started to make their way across the compound and Logan, having little else to do, had managed to piece things together: another myostatin-poor candidate had been found. He could see the writing on the wall. Soon enough, he’d be just a cog in the muscle machine, one of hundreds that would fuel a nation of empowered beings, broad and infinitely powerful the way he had always wished to become. He’d never get his freedom, his life spent being milked in captivity. He looked down at the soldier taking his load with eager, fervent eyes. That man adored him, bowed before him, trembling in his hunger for power. Logan glanced out the side of his eye to the haggard scientist who had spent every waking moment by his side looking at the screens and nearly every sleeping moment too. He had an idea. The next slated to receive his load was Sven. As the first and longest-lived recipient of Logan’s loads, the ashen Viking was magnificent. Even with the load wearing off and his muscles beginning to wane, Sven was now 6’8” and 375 lbs. Unable to contain his mass within the available clothing, he had fashioned himself a loincloth and a cloak that just barely covered his back. Unlike the soldiers, he refused to wear their impenetrable armour, charging into battle bare-chested like the crazed berserkers of old. Just two days prior he had topped over 400 lbs for the first time and upon learning this, crazed and drunk on his own power, he had gone on a bender and slaughtered all the inhabitants of a nearby village. He stroked his bloodstained, full, regal beard, contemplating the power he was about to receive, and knelt onto his knee with a reverent “My Lord.” “My Son,” breathed Logan. “Yes, Master?” Sven looked up, totally rapt. “Is it not time, that we were joined by Dr. Reich?” Logan nodded towards the frail and exhausted scientist. “See how pathetic and weak he is. He hungers for power, can’t you see?” A light shone in Sven’s eyes, “Yes. I see!” Dr. Reich looked sharply up. “Doctor. Isn’t it time that you finally got what you deserve?” “I-I’m not ready yet! The subject is still-“ “I know you Doctor. The power. You’ve desired it since we began. Why have you waited so long to take what you’ve always desired?” “I don’t- Scientifically- I-“ But his cock betrayed him. Dr. Reich’s penis stood sharply erect at the thought of himself finally as he had always dreamed, a lion among men, the intelligence in his brain replaced with simple brutality and the all-encompassing drive to become bigger, stronger, dominant. Sven guided his old mentor’s face gently to Logan’s cock, and with only the slightest hint of coaxing the Doctor had inhaled Logan into the deepest recesses of his throat and sucked with a vigour that belied his tired, weary state. Logan’s hips bucked on command and Dr. Reich guzzled his cum like it was the Fountain of Youth, slurping it down with unmatched efficiency. Arms splayed out, eyes closed with a beatific smile, his head tilted up carefully like a vessel full of precious liquid not to be spilled, Dr. Reich waited. A violent jerk caused him to jump to his feet. Muscle upon muscle, pecs, delts, arms, glutes, calves ballooned out of him, stretching his worn lab coat to bursting. The thin goatee he had been nursing for years filled in all around with thick, course stubble, all the way up his cheek and jaw and for the first time joining with his sideburns. Masculinity blossomed across his face as his brow thickened and deepened and slanted his eyes into a permanent aggressive gaze, changing his serene smile into that of an arrogant, dominant alpha male. “Yes…” he grunted… “all I’ve ever- wanted!!” he was interrupted by a second violent jerk, as the second phase of his growth put him into direct conflict with the seams of his clothing. No match for his expanding flesh, they began to stretch and pop, ripping down his arms and back. “FUCK YES!” He roared in a newfound baritone powered by his now solid trunk of a core. His lab coat exploded off of him, revealing inside mounds upon mounds of ripped, shredded, powerful muscle. At the same time, there was a loud clang in the room as the handcuffs on Logan’s wrists and ankles burst open. Some circuit keeping them together began to spark, and soon the electricity travelled down towards the machine, causing it to short and smoke, bursting in a shower of sparks. Logan clenched and unclenched his hands, revelling in his newfound freedom. Grabbing the operating table, he found he could easily lift it with one arm. Soon enough, the room was packed with the rest of the enhanced men in the facility, who had hurried over to check out the commotion they had heard. Logan looked down upon them and found all of them kneeling before him. The only exception was Dr. Reich, who, with a dimwitted expression that belied none of his former intelligence, was fully engaged in flexing and feeling himself and the hardness of his new body. “He’ll come around,” interjected Sven. “Subject #34, you are our Master, Lord and Saviour. You have given us power, and we are sworn to you. Direct us where you will, and we will conquer.” --- It wasn’t long until Logan’s subjects had made good on their promise. Soon enough he found that with each time he had cummed since his operation, he had actually grown in very slowly in size and greatly in strength and mass, and at 7’1 and 1563 lbs, he had finally outgrown his shackles and was effectively bulletproof. The American soldiers, naked and shivering, were the first outside subjects that Logan found were more than eager to convert to the cause after a single taste of the power he could give them. The newly made men were awestruck by their invincible master, all of their previous desires and fears wiped out in an instant as their bodies exploded with vigour and strength. His army was menacing, unstoppable and unquestioningly loyal. As country by country fell, they instilled brutal regimes focused only upon creating more powerful alpha men to fill their ranks. One country finally tried to nuke them, but it was found that this did nothing but greatly accelerate the effects of the serum. It wasn’t long before the world was one under Logan’s image, all men transformed into ultramasculine, bearded, shirtless patriarchs where strength ruled and all thought was directed to the purposes of growing strength and muscle, sexual domination and violence against all opposition. THE END
  2. PART 5 --- “More…” growled Sven, his voice trembling with desire. He stomped over to Logan, grabbed his penis in a firm death grip, and started yanking it furiously with his new unbridled power. The motion, unlike anything Logan had experienced before, inflicted both pain and fear the kind he had never known, but yet the trembling, pure muscled beast before him started to arouse him as well. He managed to muster a semi before his penis collapsed again, still spent. “MORE!!” snarled Sven. “Sven, Sven! We both know from our calculations that the subject’s load won’t be ready for at least another day. Now let us go check on the other subjects, shall we? Some of them ought to be showing results by now… Nigel? Skip?” “Yes, sir!” Skip stepped forward, to attention. “Where’s Nigel?” Sven had already caught wind. He thundered into the holding room. Eamon was bucking desperately on his table. “FUCK ME MATE! I NEED A FUCKIN’ RELEASE! ANYONE, I’M BEGGIN’ YE!” Sven barreled over towards him, knocking other operating tables in his way aside, but Nigel had had a big head start, having left as soon as Dr. Reich had mentioned the “other subjects.” Nigel tore off Eamon’s pants, revealing a throbbing swollen cock, a huge bulge travelling slowly, pulsing, from his testicles to the tip. Eagerly, Nigel clamped his lips all the way down and sucked like there was no tomorrow. With one final, mighty buck, Eamon shot his load down Nigel’s throat, who took it and swallowed, cum dripping out the corners of his mouth. “Ahhh…” sighed Nigel, smug and satisfied, before the pain struck and he doubled over. His skin began to bubble as his fat began to boil away. He seized up and fell over, and began rolling around, foaming at the mouth. Every moment, his body was recomposing itself from his former girth to a shredded mass monster. His features began to change as they pared down from their former swollen shape into rigid, cut features, stubble growing on his cheeks and chin until he had the hirsute, virile visage of a muscular Casanova. “Something’s wrong,” remarked Dr. Reich. The three watched in morbid fascination as Nigel rolled around on the floor, gurgling, his eyes spinning. “Yes, YES, YESSS!” Nigel cried, spread eagle on the ground, trembling like an earthquake, before he dropped still and lay, motionless, drool mixed with cum dribbling from his mouth. Simultaneously Eamon groaned, and dropped still as well. Skip ran over to take both their pulses. “They’re dead. They’re fuckin’ dead!” They looked hard at the transformed Nigel, now powerfully broad, beefy and masculine beyond his wildest dreams, right until his final moment, and Eamon, an equally virile mercenary who had been a trained and hardened killer. Together, Dr. Reich and Skip checked the rest of the subjects. “No one survived the treatment. No one…” Dr. Reich ran back to the operating room, and stared at Logan in bewilderment, who was perfectly fine and busy checking himself for any signs of change, and disappointedly finding none. Dr. Reich ran over to his screens and checked Logan’s vital statistics. All fine. He left, took samples from Nigel, Eamon and the others, and ran tests on them. He worked late into that night. He was no longer able to count on Sven’s help, as his assistant, enamoured with his new, incredible manhood, had taken to testing his newfound strength by lifting and eating anything he could get his hands on. So, he had to make do with Skip. “It would seem that the serum binds with myostatin to create a very potent toxin. Now that Subject #34 has processed the serum in its entirety, the cells in his body have transformed at a molecular level and the toxin has been completely eliminated.” “I don’t know, Boss,” replied Skip, “after what happened to Nigel, I’m wary. That stuff’s fuckin’ dangerous and there’s no two ways about it.” “I want more,” came a rumble from behind. It was Sven. “We need to do more tests, who knows what the situation is now that the serum is entirely processed,” replied Dr. Reich. “I want it now. Let’s test it and see for ourselves, then we’ll know sooner.” “Test it? Test it how?” “See?” Sven gestured at Logan. “He’s ready again. Hey buddy. Are ya ready to feed more power, more growth, more strength once again?” On command, Logan’s penis rose, unimpeded since his last shot, swelling as waves of pleasure began to fill him as the words “power, growth and strength” entered his mind and began to swirl the cauldron of his mind’s desire. Sven went over to Skip and picked him up by the scruff of his collar. “You try.” Skip looked up, alarmed and bewildered, “After what happened to Nigel? No fuckin’ way. I’m older, I’ve had a good run.” Sven looked over to Dr. Reich, “Boss, who’s next?” Dr. Reich furrowed his brow, “Skip, Sven’s right. I don’t have any more subjects and I need to have my wits about me to monitor the results. You’re the best candidate for the next load.” Skip began to flail, kicking at Sven’s shins, but in vain, “What about Sven? All he’s talked about since yesterday was wanting more!” “I want you to try, just in case,” Sven asserted. He started to carry Skip over to Logan’s table. “No, no no no,” Skip started talking fast, “I’m not ready to die yet. Let’s wait. I’m sure the Russian army’s coming. You’ll have plenty of subjects then!” “And they’ll want to know the results we determine here, top to bottom!” Argued Dr. Reich, flushed with anger, “you knew what this project was about when we started. If this gets shut down, none of us make it out of here alive. We’d be a bunch of loose ends and loose ends get terminated. For all our sakes, just take the load, man!” Sven swaggered over, Skip raised high above him with one hand. “Sven, do it!” the doctor cried. He lowered him down, pried open his mouth, and rammed the protesting Skip onto Logan’s throbbing cock. “YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, SUBJECT,” Sven roared, “POWER, STRENGTH, MUSCLE, GROWTH!” With each word a wave of pleasure ricocheted through Logan’s body and he shivered in delight. As Sven, holding onto Skip’s thin hair, shoved him again and again onto Logan’s dick, Logan felt the tightness of Skip’s throat massaging first the tip, and then the head. He couldn’t bear it. An unbearable pressure began to build up in his testicles. Again and again Skip’s throat enveloped his member, as the bulge in Logan’s testes began to travel slowly up his shaft. Finally, the tip swelled up, and Logan shot his load. Sven clamped Skip’s mouth down, forcing him to swallow the entire load. Logan’s body released itself, tension gone, entirely spent, still breathing heavy, as Skip knelt before him, his head down, gasping for air. Suddenly, Skip’s face shot up, and Logan made eye contact with a piercing glare. Logan stared into his face as wrinkles faded away and thin grey hair started to fill in, dark and strong. Stubble began to poke out onto Skip’s previously clean-shaven face, making a grizzled, salt and pepper beard. A ripple trembled through Skip’s entire body, causing his upper body to bolt upright. He was still kneeling, but now he faced upwards, eyes closed, arms outstretched to the side. With each breath he muttered something as each of his sinews started to thicken. Finally, he began to grow more confident as the power flowed through his body. “yes, yes, Yes, YES, YESSS!!!! FUCK! I CAN FEEL THE POWER! MORE! MORE STRENGTH! MORE POWER! BIGGER! UGH! I AM INVICIBLE!!! FUCKIN’ UNSTOPPABLE!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! YESSS!!” On that final word, Skip’s uniform exploded into little shreds of fabric, every rock-hard ridge of his body having expanded simultaneously. Cum spurted out of his penis, arcing onto Logan’s chest and splattering all over. His transformation complete, he finally got to his feet. The 6’, 180 lbs old-timer was now a 6’7, 340 lbs he-man in his prime. He now sported a wide, bearded jaw and broad nose and brow. He looked probingly at his hands, then felt down the yoke of his traps, to the rounded boulder of his shoulder, to the shelf of his pecs, lightly dusted on the underside with hair that accented the shadows they now created, and down the trail of his cobblestone abs, of which the lines and trail of fur led squarely to his still-dripping cock. He bent his knees a few times, feeling the bounce and the power his diamond thighs and calves could generate against the floor. Skip began to laugh. Mirthfully he picked up a protesting Dr. Reich and marvelled at the ease with which he could do it. Now bigger than Sven, he picked him up too, but put him down quickly as a knee to the gut, which previously would have knocked him clean out, demonstrated that Sven was still one he had to contend with. Afterwards, he strolled out of the room, picking up anything and everything he could get his hands on, laughing all the while. --- *CRASH* Everyone awoke with a start. Bleary-eyed, Dr. Reich ran over to one of his screens. “Shit! It’s the US Army!” Sven and Skip, jumping to their feet, looked at each other and smirked. Both were naked all except over their groins, as the only clothing that fit them in the compound were a couple of elastic cum-stained jockstraps they could find off of Logan’s old squad mates. They snuck over to the ambush spot and waited. As soon as one of the soldiers walked by, they jumped out. With superhuman strength they grabbed each man in sequence, slamming them to the ground, evading bullets with agility they never knew they had. It wasn’t long until every soldier was unconscious, and they didn’t know what’s coming. Soon enough, they had all the invaders locked up in a holding cell, buck naked. Sven and Skip took great pleasure in individually stripping them of weapons and clothes, lifting them up above the ground with ease and plucking their garments off of their bodies, accidentally ripping them between thumb and forefinger when met with even the tiniest bit of resistance. “Good work, men,” said Dr. Reich, “the Russians are due to send their batch of soldiers today. They will be very pleased with the prisoners we have caught and with the unmitigated success of our early tests.” Soon afterwards, the Russian soldiers arrived. With Sven egging him on, Logan found that he was able to recharge faster and faster as the soldiers pumped him for his precious juice. Soon enough a super soldier army had been created, bulging, massive and aggressive as hell. With each monster he created, Logan found himself more and more aroused at the prospect of making another, with his only, seething regret being that he could not experience the effects himself. Weeks passed and Logan heard in bits and pieces from his captivity of the unstoppable Russians who had won battle after battle. With their inhuman strength, they were able to wear extraordinarily heavy custom-built armour that made them impervious to everything thrown at them. Dr. Reich continued to monitor the effects of Logan’s seed. It turned out that after a few days the effects would begin to wear off and the enhanced individuals would begin to deflate, so they routinely had to return to Logan for upkeep. Much to the recipient’s pleasure, however, with each load they received, they grew just a little bigger and stronger every time. Without exception all of them grew obsessed with the prospect, unable to be aroused by anything but the prospect of their increased size. Logan could feel a change in the way they touched him, caressing him like he was precious, worshipping him on their knees, knelt with their eyes closed and head down in thanks before they received their dose. Whenever the facility was attacked, like runaway locomotives they would run out with unmatched ferocity, ardently protecting the Source, and their fervour made them unstoppable. Dr. Reich was extremely pleased at how well his subject was doing but had to request that soldiers stop being sent from the motherland, as nearly all of Logan’s waking moments were spent in service to his new duty. Everyday Dr. Reich needed to top off his nutritional IVs, ensuring that he had enough sustenance to fuel the growth of a hundred and twenty-two men seven days a week. He had sent a request for another myostatin poor test subject to be sent to him but maintaining the machine to which Logan was attached as well as monitoring him day and night was more than a full-time job. He began to grow a bit haggard and weary from lack of sleep.
  3. PART 4 --- Logan was right at home among the grizzled, testosterone-charged, chauvinistic men of the Firebats. Craig Roark, the recruiter who had so convincingly pitched the job just two months before, clearly had a type. Everyone here was amoral and self-interested, even sociopathic, but the Corps had the funds to ensure that they behaved predictably and was directed towards the right cause. As a result, everyone flew through training with flying colours, especially Logan who at 325 pounds was the biggest, strongest man there. At first, he had been disappointed at his plateauing growth, despite eating three MREs per meal and the constant physical training, but his conditioning continued to improve and he was able to run faster and further, carry more and complete the grueling courses in less and less time. His body fat percentage steadily dropped and his shredded body was consistently on display. He was too big for any of the standard-issue gear, so while they were being custom-made he took to strapping ever-increasing weights to his body as his only from of clothing while he accomplished the exercises. By the end he was a well-oiled killing machine, rabid for his second taste of blood. At night he revisited in his mind his final moments with the Master, and only regretted that he hadn’t yet been trained enough to subdue him in time to give him a taste of his cock in turn before taking him out forever. That, and he’d need to find a new myostatin inhibitor source in a few years time, but he was confident he’d find another one before he ran out. Their training complete, he and his squad were on their first assignment. They were told that there was a secret Russian facility hidden somewhere in the Middle East, and that the CIA had no intelligence on what it was or what it might be, and that sending intelligence units had failed multiple times. So, discreetly, they had hired the Firebat Corps. to blitz the facility and take it over by force, dispensing with subtlety which obviously wasn’t working. Their orders were to gun down anyone they couldn’t subdue immediately, and then to hold the facility until the CIA could send their agents and get to work figuring out what was going on with what evidence was left. At 3 AM the squad dropped down by parachute, and huddled up to review their strategy, but a couple men were getting cold feet. Worried, the squad leader, a redheaded veteran named Eamon with a deep voice and Irish accent held up some inhalers of benzedrine. “I un’erstand if’n ye don’t want t’ take these. Crazy stuff that’ll turn ye to a ragin’ maniac, but least it wards away the bad thoughts.” With a contemptuous snort, Logan grabbed the Benzedrine suddenly from the squad leader and inhaled the whole supply. As it kicked it he grabbed a nearby bazooka and stomped off into a clearing. He was in luck, one of the regular searchlights that swept the area had just past and was shining like a beacon. Logan took a moment to lift the bazooka and fired at the source of the light, and it exploded satisfyingly. He reloaded and fired at the next tower, with a similar result. Both guard towers facing them were now down, so Logan grabbed his assault rifle and sprinted over to the door, rammed it open with his shoulder and stormed in. Inside, the guards were still scrambling, and Logan easily picked them off with a burst of his rifle. Panicking scientists ran away but they were no match for the sprinting behemoth. Logan either took them out with a running punch, or else grabbed them by the scruff of their neck and slammed them against a wall. His squad mates barely kept up behind him, cleaning up as he bulldozed his way through the facility. Logan found the stairwell to the guard’s sleeping quarters and gunned down every man who came out the door, laughing like a madman. By the end of the hour, all the rooms in the facility had been cleared and all the personnel accounted for, and Logan was finally coming down from his raging high. Breathing heavily, he laughed and joked with the men of his squad, sharing stories of nice shots they’d taken or memorable pleas from the scientists. A flash of memory came to Logan of FPS shooters he used to play in college, but he put that memory far, far away from his mind. He got to do the real thing now, and he had loved every second of it. However, Eamon, the squad leader wasn’t celebrating with the rest of them. “Ye maniac! If ye go off like that again I’m not savin’ ye! Y’er lucky ‘twas that easy. Too easy, in fact.” Not deigning to reply, Logan patted him firmly on the back and went to sleep. He’d let the others take guard duty for the rest of the night – he’d done enough for the day. --- Logan awoke, cuffed to an operating table. He struggled against his cuffs, but despite the sound of groaning metal, he found himself unable to move anything but his neck. He looked around and found the rest of his squad, each on their own operating table, most of them in various stages of recovering consciousness. Logan hadn’t seen this room before. It was a dark, windowless room, with the only lights coming from a few battery-powered camper lamps sitting all around and a few screens that could be seen on the opposite side of the room. In front of that screen sat a tall but willowy bespectacled man in his forties, wearing a lab coat. An expert now in assessing physical form, Logan estimated he was 6’2”, 130 lbs. “Hey fucker! Where the fuck am I?” Logan roared across the room. The scientist looked over his shoulder with an odd expression, as if he was getting over some great fear or nervousness, but with the look of a hungry wolf. He walked stiffly over to Logan and peered over him. He had blue eyes framed by blonde hair cut in a high and tight and what looked like a pathetic attempt at a goatee. The man looked like he was clinging to any masculinity he could find. Logan scowled at him and he almost flinched but stayed composed. “Yes, yes. You are the first to awaken. I suspected you might be – the tranquilizer was dozed for a man of your size and weight so I imagine the others will be out for some time yet.” Logan struggled against his bonds, growling. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Those are made of tungsten carbide and are far stronger than steel. Without momentum you have no chance of generating the force needed to escape.” Logan bellowed and struggled harder, and the table groaned which caused a flicker of concern in the scientist’s face, but the bonds continued to hold. “Alright then, I may need something stronger then.” The scientist started rummaging through some storage units, looking for something. “I can’t lose such a valuable specimen as yourself. As I saw from the security footage, you basically stormed the facility alone. Too stupid to look for any secret passages though. Your Irish colleague over there tried, but luckily, he tired out before finding the switch. Aha!” The scientist pulled out a device and clamped it to the table. Pressing a button on his phone, a powerful jolt spread through Logan’s body, causing him to cry out in pain despite himself. “Generator for an electric fence, meant to keep away bears. Leave it to Russians to decide we need bear protection in the desert. Anyway, I repurposed it to give me phone control in case any of my subjects got too out of hand. You might think that your chance to escape will be when I’m not paying attention, but unfortunately for you there is a failsafe – when any of the continuous metal fittings on your table are broken, the electricity will arc through your body instead, killing you.” By this point, both of them could hear groans coming from the rest of the squad. As they slowly started coming to the same realization as Logan, the scientist tutted, took a position at the forefront of the room, and announced. “Hello, my Firebat Corps. My name is Dr. David Reich. Please do not speak or make any noise or else I will be forced to attach a device to your table similar to the one I’ve placed on the big guy over there.” He pressed the button and pain tore through Logan, causing him to yelped once again. “At first I was devastated that you had ruined so much of research with your invasion last night. With so few of my colleagues left, I no longer have the time and resources to continue as I had been. However, I realized that now that I need to expedite the process, I could not have a better batch of test subjects. All the bureaucratic mess I needed to undergo to request permission to test on human subjects… well, now all the subjects of the government I work for are gone, and all of my new subjects wouldn’t even be acknowledged by your government lest they reveal a disastrous, and embarrassing, operation in the Middle East. So, you should make peace with the fact that no one is coming to rescue you, just as I’ve made peace with the loss of months of work. So let’s make the best out of the opportunities this new situation has afforded us, shall we?” He picked up a wall phone and dialed one number. “Sven, we may begin.” --- Logan could do nothing but watch as his one by one, his squad mates were wheeled off to another, much brighter room. From where he was he could brutal screams of pain and the sounds of electricity, followed by a yell of “Next!” and then the next one was wheeled in. Logan couldn’t help but notice that they were being brought in order of size. He was going to be last, then. Impotently, he looked around the room at his captors. Working with the thin Dr. Reich was a young lab assistant, Sven, who looked like a co-op intern, barely twenty years old, 5’6” and 120 lbs. He reminded Logan of some of his college classmates years ago, with acne, a patchy mustache, sideburns and a little down on his chin, all ashen blonde. There were also two guards. One, who Logan had heard to referred as “Skip,” was broad and tall, probably 6’, 180 lbs, who looked like he was once very strong but was now getting on in years. Clean shaven, he had thin, grey hair with a bald spot. The other was Nigel, a squat, mustachioed, fat man, 5’8” and 260 lbs with a sizable paunch and flat cap that was his first point of contact with every stretcher he pushed. Logan remarked with some satisfaction that he had taken out all the strapping specimens in the facility, and the only ones fit to do any work left were the weaklings here that had been left to guard the part of the facility they had no fear of being attacked. One by one, Logan’s squad mates were returned as whatever Dr. Reich did to them was completed and they were sent back. Some were passed out, some were shivering, Eamon the squad leader was straight up convulsing, his jaw clenched and eyes bugging out. Some were calm and alert as if nothing had happened at all. The only thing that was noticeably the same about all of them, was that they all had a staggering erection. During the entire period Logan waited, he watched in fascination as their wood refused to drop. For some this was just fine, but for others it was torture. He watched as Eamon, struggled restlessly against his bonds, staring desperately at the tent in his pants. Finally, it was Logan’s turn. It took both guards and Sven to push him into the operating room. Inside was a crazy machine, with many tubes and vessels full of fluid, robotic arms holding needles, electrodes and other such goodies and an operating table-sized gap where the table could dock and everything could be attached. Dr. Reich stood at a table beside the machine, along with his computer and several screens showing vital statistics and sequences. Logan’s table groaned as his captors pushed him and docked him into place. His vision was dominated by a screen in front of him, showing only static for the moment. The two guards left as Sven and Dr. Reich worked together to plug everything in, place all the electrodes onto various parts of Logan’s body and lock all the hinges tightly together. Then, Dr. Reich typed sequences into the computer while Sven inserted an IV into each of Logan’s wrists. “This will be painful,” said Dr. Reich jauntily, “I offered anesthetic to some of the other subjects, but who knows how that would interact with this. I can’t risk those side effects on a specimen as valuable as you. So you’ll just have to man up and walk it off.” He laughed at his own joke. “I guess you can’t do that. Too bad.” Ceremoniously, he pressed the enter button on his keyboard, and the machine came to life, humming with power. The screen in front of Logan started flashing images too fast and imperceptible for him to recognize. The fluid in the vessels descended into the tubes and the fluid creeped towards Logan’s wrists. As they reached, simultaneously a huge jolt ran through his body, with sharp pinpoints of pain concentrated at the contact points of the electrodes. A searing sensation spread through Logan’s veins. “FUCK!” He gasped, convulsing. “FUCK FUCK FUCK MOTHERFUCKING SHIT FUCK SHIT-“ As what felt like four hundred thousand volts arced through his system, the searing spread slowly and excruciatingly, like molasses up his wrists, through his arms, down his shoulders, and then spread down through his heart and core and up his neck at the same time. Suddenly, it hit his brain and his testicles, right at the same time. “Yes!” Dr. Reich exclaimed, glued to the statistics scrolling non-stop down his screen. At that moment, fireworks went off, as if a part of Logan’s brains and both testes had exploded, at the same time. Logan could no longer pay attention to anything else, the searing started filling into his penis, causing it to rise, harder than he’d ever been in his life, and suddenly, Logan felt incredibly horny. Subliminally, his brain flicked through every single lay he had had over the past year. Starting from his ex, to every busty bimbo he had conquered, to three straight months of sucking the Master’s cock. As his cock stood to attention, Logan began to realize something. Eyes wide open, he could see nothing but white – only a pure concept remained – pure humanity would never again give him satisfaction. All he wanted, all he needed, the only thing he worshipped, was pure, unadulterated, POWER. As this thought crystallized, so did his need for release. “LET- ME-“ he yelled with all his might, but he could not finish his sentence, the desire was too great. “FUCK!” “I NEED-“ “FUCK!” A voice from within his own head, a mighty baritone, declared. “Muscle. Power. Strength. Are you ready to accept your purpose?” “YES, FUCK YES! POWER IS MY ONE AND ONLY GOD!” Logan bellowed as his hips began to buck violently. “My dear Sven!” Dr. Reich cried, “Could it be? He’s ready! He’s the one. You know what you must do!” With a crazed expression in his eyes, Sven, clawed at Logan’s pants, fighting the tightness of his raging erection. With great effort he removed Logan’s belt and button and pulled down on Logan’s cock with all his might to unzip his fly. Logan’s penis had already burst through his underpants. Sven, opened wide and placed his mouth on Logan’s member. Logan bucked violently one last time, and in a moment of intense bliss shot his load down Sven’s throat. Sven almost choked but mastered himself and clamped his lips down hard on Logan’s penis, milking him for every drop, using the motion of his tongue to squeeze cum out of the tube and down his hungry throat. Logan’s dick finally softened, spent, and he collapsed onto his table, while Dr. Reich watched in anticipation. Sven’s breathing became heavier and heavier, his erection still visible in his pants. Suddenly, he seized up, his knees buckling as he doubled over, his hands on his abdomen, his jaw clenched. “Fuuuuck…” he groaned. His breathing became vocal, his boyish voice starting to drop in pitch into a guttural grunt. He fell to his knees, as the fibres of his pectorals and shoulders started to push out. He was now yelling a low pitched, continuous scream, his bones lengthening as meat piled onto them. His patchy mustache and chin beard filled out, connecting with his sideburns into a full, thick beard as his voice finally reached an incredibly masculine, deep bass. With each breath, his chest barreled out and his back widened, and his thighs thickened like trunks, his skin plastered onto them, showing every ripple in his shape. His thin wrists thickened, and his fingers followed suit, his meaty hands now looking like skier’s gloves placed on top of his old ones. A sharp “RIPPPPP!” and a powerful bicep burst out of his lab coat, tearing down to his wrist as his forearm followed suit. His clenched jaw started to turn up at the edges, turning into a bestial smile as his pain began to mix with the intense pleasure of his blood being squeezed into his muscles, of stretching bigger and bigger. Nigel and Skip came over from the holding room, and stopped dead in their tracks at the door, watching in rapture. “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK” he yelled, more and more confidently each second. “FUCKKK!!!” He shoved his chest outwards and his elbows back, his fists clenched, and burst through his lab coat, as ropes of cum spurted through the air. Still growling with each heavy breath, his brow lowered aggressively and grinning evilly, Sven stood before Dr. Reich and Logan. The 5’6”, 120 lbs intern had become a 6’3”, 300 lbs Viking, and he wanted more.
  4. PART 3 --- The next morning, when Logan walked into the gym, he could sense something was different. Even Cody, who had been so friendly yesterday, scowled at him as Logan had seen on the team pictures last night. The big linesman’s face and body were tensed up like a coil, as if Cody were continuing to work out right there at the desk. He gave a Logan a brief “’Sup” nod, wide eyed and nostrils flaring, as Logan passed on through the turnstile. Inside was a frenzy of grunting beasts. Logan was reminded of the way Darryl had powered his way through his set yesterday, except now everyone in the gym had that same intensity. Over in the far corner of the room, stood a statue of a man, arms folded as always, that redefined Logan’s picture of the masculine ideal. No longer did the Greeks hold any sway in that regard – the 350 lbs brick shithouse Logan beheld showed him that beauty lay in squares. A thick, brutish, square head with a diamond cut square jaw, a full squared off sheriff mustache with a squared off buzz cut and thick, deep brow. A neck and traps so wide they flared outwards as the bulges of his shoulders angled down to a powerful, thick waist rippling with cobblestone abs. Giant, diamond cut thighs, calves and shoeboxes for feet supported the bank vault that lay on top. This man was hard, and as he surveyed, his presence in the room could be felt from corner to corner. His narrow eyes followed Logan as he made his way over. “What do you want?” The Master asked contemptuously. “I want to be fucking big and fucking strong.” Logan asserted. “WHAT?” The Master roared. “I want to be fucking big and fucking strong.” “WHAT?” “I WANT TO BE FUCKING BIG AND FUCKING STRONG.” The room stood still for a second, then the clanks of iron resumed. The Master looked down on him, then motioned towards his office. Logan followed him in, and then the Master turned around to face him, and dropped his pants, his mass completely on display. Logan shifted inwardly a semi building up in his pants. This man was 50% more Man than he was, and his cock was no exception, bulging, thick and corded as his forearm. The Master gestured down towards it. “You want it, punk? Show me.” Logan had never sucked dick before. His dick was for sucking – sex these past few months were meant for his pleasure and his alone. Faced with this mountain of a man, however, he felt dominated. His semi started to falter. He closed his eyes and remembered yesterday. Growing. GROWING! It was within his grasp! His dick stood at attention, and a moment later, he was on his knees, choking on thirteen inches of meat that pounded the back of his throat like a fist. Logan sucked and prodded around with his tongue, trying to make room to breathe, and as he did so, he found that as his tongue hit certain spots, the Master would jerk forward, throw his head up and close his eyes. Squeezing in short breaths through jerks, he prodded and pulled with his tongue, feeling his head being drawn higher and higher by the rising pole in his mouth until-! A torrent of cum spurt down his throat, filling up every air pocket he had so carefully crafted until it started to flow out his mouth. “SWALLOW!” The Master bellowed, and Logan complied, tears in his eyes, until he felt a sharp jab in his butt. “Good…” sneered the Master, “A real powerhungry cocksucker. I was getting tired of choosing between weaklings to command.” The needle fell from his grasp and shattered as it hit the floor. “This stack includes a myostatin inhibitor – the only supply you’ll find in this country. The deal is simple. One suck – one stab. One per day. Now leave my sight.” Logan stumbled out and began his workout. Disappointingly, he couldn’t lift any more weight than he used to. But as he continued, he found that on his third set, he was completely in control the way he never was by the end. He added ten pounds to the bar and tried again. It was easier than his first set with the lighter weight had been. By the end of the third set, he added weight again. When his form had dropped enough for him to feel the need to stop, he added up the plates. He had just squatted 495 lbs, 50 lbs more than his previous best. In a trance, he continued with the rest of his workout, marvelling at his progress on each one. By the end, he checked the clock – 8:45 am. He was going to be late for work! Not bothering to shower, he threw on his work clothes and sprinted out the door. --- Logan slipped into work at 9:15, and it appeared no one had noticed he was gone. He started his daily routine but after twenty minutes realized he hadn’t cleared even one line of code. He ran one of his automated scripts, did fifteen minutes of handstand pushups and mountain climbers, cracked his knuckles, and tried again. No dice. The code swam before his eyes. He assumed that he just had a lot of energy to burn, and that as usual over the course of the day he’d start to hit his rhythm. It never came though and burning bright through his frustration over not being able to accomplish anything was an incredible sense of BOREDOM. Every moment he spent sitting at a desk he felt he could be using his muscles. His break periods were no help either. Calisthenics weren’t doing it for him, by this point he was feeling no resistance, and so they offered no respite from his pent-up energy. The only thing he had enjoyed all day was eating. His muscles were still starved from his monstrous workout that morning, and with every bite of steak and every sip of protein shake he could feel the nutrition seeping down through his veins and feeding them, satisfying them. As he imagined this, he felt his cock begin to rise again, and soon he was imagining getting his injection the next day. Before long he had blown his load all over his office, and several of his colleagues and his boss were peeking in at the door, piqued by the guttural grunts and shaking floor coming from his general direction. “Coming in late, eating and doing pushups all day, masturbating in the office?” his boss squeaked. “You’re fired!” In his boss’ office, exit paperwork in front of him, Logan could barely believe his eyes. He was still entitled to a severance package, so long as he signed a non-compete clause and vacated immediately, and as long as he didn’t sue. After today, he knew he was never working in IT again. He would look for a job that used his muscles constantly, and he would enjoy the chunk of cash to spend on more food to fuel his growth. He gave his ex-boss a toothy grin. “Have a nice fuckin’ day, won’t ya?” As he left his office, he could hear his boss talking to the reception. “I don’t know what happened! One day, we’ve hired one of the brightest coders in the business – he helped build Zipto for God’s sake – the next moment we’ve got a raging musclebound freak in the office who doesn’t do anything but eat and workout? I thought that sort of thing only happened in the movies…” Not long after, Logan had found his next job – Cowboy Construction. He sat face to face with a Eddie, a walrus mustached, ruddy faced, balding brick of a man who clearly had played football and worked out in the field back in the day but whose belly had steadily grown over the years now that he was in a supervisory role. He looked back and forth from Logan’s resume to the man himself, chewed his tobacco thoughtfully and remarked, “I don’t know why y’ve decided to get int’ the construction business from one o’ those fancy firms, but I ain’t even checkin’ references f’r a man’s big as yerself. A big fucker like yerself’s welcome any day’ve the week.” “One condition,” replied Logan, “No. Fucking. Shirts.” “Y’think I give a flyin’ fuck ‘bout that?” asked Eddie, “I’d eat my own fuckin’ cock if my crew owned half a dozen goddamn shirts between ‘em!” Logan smiled. He’d found his place. --- Logan’s new workplace was everything he’d ever hoped for. Among his crew, a motley assortment of ex-convicts and rednecks who couldn’t give a shit about safety and even less shits about anything else, Logan settled in. Finally, he could smoke on the job. Everyone here swore like a sailor all day long, calling each other with a good natured “Hey fucker!” from across the job site. Everyone here was a real man, over two hundred pounds, bushy beard and strong as an ox. None were as strong as Logan though. They’d taken to calling him “Forky”: since he was so eager to lift anything and everything that needed to be lifted, he basically acted as an extra forklift for the crew. He’d even found some shooting buddies among the rednecks, and twice a week they’d head out hunting or shooting, and Logan found himself getting to be a crack shot with dozens of different assault rifles, shotguns and handguns. Three months saw Logan transformed by the myostatin inhibitors, training and eating like a maniac, and the constant lifting at work and twice a day at the gym. In place of a 245-pound man stood a 315-pound mountain. Taking a cue from some of his co-workers, Logan had rewarded himself with a tattoo session every ten pounds he had gained, the images stretching out over the ample and ever-increasing surfaces of his muscles. He now had a sleeve covering left bicep and forearm and encroaching onto his left pectoral and back with skulls, barbed wire, guns, and a bald eagle with wings portraying the American flag. On his right shoulder he had chosen to put a bearded Punisher skull with two rifles crossed underneath as well as a banner that read “FUCK FEAR.” Ever since he had thrown a man across a room for calling him “Forky,” deeming it a pussy nickname, his new monikers had been “Viking,” “Crusher,” and his favourite, “all brawn and no brain.” No one here would have guessed that deep in some drawer lay a Computer Science degree and certifications in a half-dozen programming languages, and Logan liked it that way. As he had continued to grow, the rest of the crew began to orbit his centre of gravity, feeling drawn by his masculinity and feeling the need to impress him and win his approval. The only thing that eclipsed Logan’s dedication to his body was his dedication to the Master. He spent over five hours a day either being trained by the Master or pleasuring him to receive the injection he desperately craved. As he once again surpassed Darryl he could feel the glares on his back as the Master trained him personally, pushing him to inhuman levels of strength, but he couldn’t care less. Every time he looked down upon Darryl, he felt the immense satisfaction of having won once again, of being better. Spending so much time with the Master, he knew that Darryl couldn’t bear the Master’s cock being rammed down his throat more than three times a week. No one wanted it enough, except Logan, and the Master knew it, and gave him what he desired. One day, at the range, Logan was practicing quickdraws to hit clay pigeons when he was approached by a burly man stuffed into a suit. Logan continued his practice while the stranger observed, casually smoking a cigar and implacable behind a pair of Raybans. “That’s a good shot you have,” the stranger finally interjected, “care to hit some people with it?” Logan considered it. “I ain’t takin’ fuckin’ orders from some big shot police chief or army fucker, no.” The stranger broke into a broad smile. “Oh no, you misunderstand. I’m from Firebat Mercenary Corps. We do all the dirty work. When there’s war crimes to be done on America’s behalf, we’re the ones that get called. You look like you love your country,” he said, gesturing at Logan’s tattoos, “I bet you’re also the kind of man who’d want to kill for his country. There are certain… self-serving benefits to it as well. A certain criminal immunity in the homeland, so to speak, as well as, of course, the financial rewards.” Logan looked at the sky, thoughtful. “Logan, you are an exceptional man. There are not that many strong-ass motherfuckers that are both familiar with computers and good shots. In two months, we can turn you into a weapon that any country would trip over themselves to have on their hands.” “I ain’t codin’ no more. Computer screens swim before my eyes now.” He nodded at his gun, “This’s what I spend my time on. That ‘n getting bigger.” “No matter. We have a whole hacking team. We just need someone who can talk to them and hold his own on the field.” “How much?” The stranger pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and showed him. No more needed to be said. They shook hands and Logan signed the paperwork. He was going to be picked up that evening to be sent to training camp. Just one more thing to do. Logan headed to the gym, and right into the Master’s office. The Master was already waiting for him, buck-naked and seated legs spread wide. Logan reached into his gym bag, pulled an AK-47, and rained a dozen bullets into the Master’s midsection. He then grabbed the myostatin inhibitor shot out of the Master’s hand, jabbed it into his thigh, then head over to the safe where he knew the supply was kept. He punched the safe hard. It dented deeply. After two more blows, the door to the safe came clean off, and several bottles and hypodermic needles could be found inside. Logan swept all of them into his gym bag, then walked out of the door. The whole gym was dead quiet and looking right at him, having heard the gunfire from the office. Paying no mind, Logan strolled through the stunned gymgoers, proud as a lion and without regrets, and he went right on home where the van was waiting.
  5. PART 2 --- Two months later, Logan had exploded with growth. His new routine had effectively tripled his sets of exercise, and on the cocktail of steroids that the college footballers used to beef up their linesmen, he had thrived, inching his way daily up to his current 235 lbs. He often hung out with the Darryl and the team and learned from them the joys of constant shirtlessness. Even simple tank tops proved too hot for Logan nowadays, as his constantly working, juiced muscles gave off relentless heat that only a direct, cool, breeze could assuage. The cheerleading girls constantly mistook him for one of the team and using this to his advantage he had bagged each and every one of them. By the time they had realized who he was, the memories of his primal lovemaking and rock hard, bulging body and masculinity washed over them, bringing to mind waves of pleasure, and they would approach him again, craving for more. As such Logan spent less time at the bar. Instead he would bring barrels of whiskey to the frat parties and challenge the guys there to wagers for a night with their girl, if he could outdrink them. He never lost once. Over the next couple of weeks, something was off about Darryl. He had continued to make progress, pushed to his limits by his new, hungry workout partner, and was now 230 lbs, but with each coming week, Logan had overtaken him in some way. While he used to outbench Logan by 60 lbs, Logan could now bench 355 lbs, 20 lbs more than him, even though he had gained strength himself. While he was proud of his 4.6 second 40-yard dash, Logan made a casual attempt himself and had reached 4.5 seconds. For the first month, Darryl had lorded his extra size and weight over Logan, calling him a newbie – but then Logan surpassed him in weight too. For a while, Darryl could ignore the scale and look in the mirror, where his shorter frame packed the muscle on thicker for the time being. But Logan continued to grow and looked to be matching his width too… He just couldn’t compete – he’d been juicing for years now and couldn’t match the progress of a taller man who had just begun and whose body had responded with aplomb. Darryl’s frustrations boiled over during their workouts, and he would yell in frustration at every missed rep. He grew more distant and would begin to skip workouts. He stopped inviting Logan to team events and eventually, disappeared altogether. Logan couldn’t care less. He was high on his growing size and strength and still on top of the world. As far as he was concerned, there was only two factors that concerned him: 1. He still had a couple of month’s supply of gear left, but his dealer was now gone 2. He was tired of fucking his regular nightly carousel of cheerleaders, and he had no one to introduce him to someone new. The second seemed more urgent at the moment, so after his usual dinner for six, he found himself at the bar, hungry and once again on the prowl. He received winks from some thirsty babes, but he was in the mood for fresh meat. He spotted a curvy brunette across the room and sauntered over. Something about her seemed different, and different was on the menu today. He caught a glimpse of her face and stopped short. It was his ex! At a bar! He couldn’t help chuckling a bit. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, drew in deeply, and stepped in front of her and blew smoke into her face. Surprised and offended, she retorted, “Sir, that was rude!” She just sirred him! Logan supressed his glee. He was unrecognizable to her! Nothing more than this confirmed to him that his transformation – from a meek computer geek, acceding to her every demand, her every whim, to a primal alpha MAN that could take and ravish her right here and now – was complete. But it wasn’t enough. He had grown a need to conquer and dominate, and most of all, to grow stronger still. He couldn’t wait for his next encounter with Darryl, where he’d have an opportunity just like this to assert his dominance. “Don’t you know that smoking is against the rules in here?” She continued. “Fuck the rules, bitch” he grunted. She was offended, but speechless, lost for words. She went to slap him but he caught her hand, and ran it over his boulder shoulder and down over the hill of his twenty-one inch bicep. He cupped her hand in his and made it squeeze the rock hard mounds on his barren chest. “Aren’t you tired of fuckin’ pussy soy boys?” His voice got more intense with each word, until he was roaring “It’s time you were with a real man. A red meat eatin’ all American MAN.” She was undecided for a moment, then her expression softened. She threw herself onto him and let him carry her out of the bar. In bed, he marvelled at how easily he could now toss her around, picking her up and impaling her onto his pike while she screamed as she had never done before. “Fuck, FUCK, FUCK!!!” She cried. Under such intense pleasure or pain, she could find no other words. By the end of the night, as they shared a cigarette, she had been converted. She begged him not to leave, fearing that he would now discard her like a used tissue. She could no longer be satisfied by the sensitive submissive boys she had sought out her whole life. By association with her new master, she was now aroused only by pure, unbridled masculinity. She could only be satisfied by the biggest, most hulking, bearded, foul mouthed, tobacco-laced, meat-eating drunkard she could find at the bar or the gym. Her number in hand, Logan discarded it as he left. They hadn’t even exchanged names. He wasn’t coming back. --- Six weeks later, Logan found himself sitting in the locker room, giving himself the second last shot in his supply of steroids, when he overheard some of the other meatheads in the gym talking about a new gym that had opened two months ago. Allegedly, some rich, successful businessman had gotten into bodybuilding, but became disgusted that all the other gyms had been infected by casuals looking to “tone” and do Yogalates and so had opened a gym together only for those who were truly dedicated to the iron. Logan was intrigued. He had assumed that he’d have gotten a new stack of steroids by now, but surveying around, at 245 lbs, he was the biggest one left in the gym. He wasn’t going to trust a stack from someone smaller than him. Heck, even that pansy Darryl was bigger that almost everyone here by this point. He resolved to make his way over and join. At the front desk he met one of the football guys, a defensive linesman. “Holy shit,” Logan thought, “Cody is shredded.” The linesman, a 290 lb gainer who always looked like he carried most of his weight from his stomach down, now carried a respectable upper body and had lost a lot of belly fat. Sizing Logan up, Cody admitted, “I know you’re serious about lifting, dude. I’ll put in a good word for you, but you’ve gotta do a trial week first. Are you ready, bro?” “Yes!” barked Logan, overeager. After getting his picture taken and card printed, he tapped in and entered the gym. Beneath the fluorescent lights, grunting, totally engrossed in their workouts, stood not a single man under 240 lbs of jacked, solid muscle. Seeing this environment raised Logan’s hackles, his blood racing with motivation. He was going to find a solid stack here. He knew what to do. He scanned the room for the biggest fucker he could find, found a bald, bearded, hairy beast of a 300-pound motherfucker and made a beeline for him, but stopped in his tracks as he saw Darryl’s face. Darryl took a look at Logan’s astounded face and sneered. “What’s a fuckin’ weakling like you doing here? I didn’t realize anyone with a goddamn pussy could get in here nowadays. You think you got what it takes to work in with me?” Logan counted the plates on the bar Darryl was about to bench. Five hundred and sixty-five pounds. He stood, stunned, as Darryl, no spotter, no hesitation, lay onto the bench and pushed out eight perfect reps, bellowing his head off with each rep. After the set, Darryl racked the bar, and jumped to his feet. “THAT’S HOW IT’S FUCKIN’ DONE!!” Logan had thought his 395 lbs bench impressive, but the feeling of pressing less than four hundred now seemed indisputably puny to him. He put an extra ten pounds on and struggled to push out five slow but decent reps. He had done it, but compared to what he had just seen, he was nothing. Darryl smirked and continued the rest of his workout, feeling secure in his superiority. A fire kindled in Logan’s belly. He had never wanted to be bigger and stronger than he did right now. He wanted to put Darryl in his place. He finished up the rest of his sets the best he could, setting solid, but unfortunately still realistic personal records on each lift once again. As he stormed out of the room Cody gave him a friendly wave. “Don’t worry, you’re doing great, dude! I know I’ll be seeing you tomorrow!” His first time on social media since his initial breakup, Logan booted up Instagram and took a look at Darryl’s profile. There he was again, a hairy, bald 300 lbs gorilla nothing like the 230 lb jock he had known just two months ago. Logan continued to scroll down, seeing the explosion in reverse, and shifted uncomfortably, fighting and ignoring a growing erection. It hadn’t just been Darryl, though his transformation had been the most dramatic. The whole team was now jacked beyond belief. What had started two months ago as pictures of a bunch of frat boys hanging out with their trophy girlfriends became a flipbook of growing, scowling muscle beasts who now seemed to spend every moment shirtless, working out or flexing. Only two other kinds of postings interrupted these: short videos of the team massacring other teams on the football field, and motivational pictures with their eyes closed and a massive, hulking figure in the background with his arms crossed, cut off at the eyes. Reading the comments, he saw that the team made constant references to “the Master” on each other’s posts. He could only assume that the shadowy background giant was this man. Some kind of trainer, one that guaranteed results like no other. Logan imagined himself blowing up to Darryl’s proportions and his hand flew uncontrollably to his dick, choking it up and down in a death grip. He pounded it faster and faster, gripping it hard and harder as he imagined each of his muscles expanding: his glutes wrenched tight and lifting him off his seat and his and his pecs pushing together and his shoulders hunched over, containing the tension. His bicep pumped up in his working arm, and he climaxed imagining it bigger and bigger and BIGGER. No girl he laid had ever given him a sensation like that before. Hungry for the real thing, he resolved that tomorrow, he’d meet the Master and pledge his allegiance.
  6. Hey y'all. Another story here. Couple of things to lay out before getting started: This story is complete. I'm just posting it in 4-5 portions to keep it digestible, since it's pretty long. This story is going to end up in a different place than it begins. No one in this story is particularly nice or gets what they deserve. If you like stories about nice people finally getting their break, this one is not for you. Hope someone out there enjoys reading this as much as I fuckin' enjoyed writing it. Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Final Part --- Logan Mitchell sawed off a piece of sumptuous steak and placed it daintily into his mouth, savouring the taste. It had been so long since he had tasted meat. He was celebrating, he needed this. “No,” he thought, “I don’t need to justify eating meat anymore.” He had just come off a bad breakup that had caused him to put his entire life into perspective. He’d been working for the last five years at a small tech startup that had consumed his life. They “worked hard, and played hard,” which mostly meant that he worked sixteen-hour days, six days a week, and got to wear a pink tie on Fridays. His girlfriend had gotten fed up with his not spending any time with her and dumped him, and then the week after a large tech giant bought the startup and restructured the entire original dev team out of the company which had left Logan both without work and without the girl who the work was getting in the way of. It was then that Logan decided his life needed a change. Both work and his girl had controlled him for too long. He was 27, and it was time that he did the things he wanted to do with his life. Luckily for him, he was able to leverage his past experience at his startup into a cushier gig at a more established company, with both a strict 9-5, and what looked like a relaxed management team. His mind reeled at the thought of all he could do with the extra 48 hours per week in his life. Having finished his steak, he looked at his reflection on the empty metal plate. He took his napkin and wiped the juices off to see himself better. Auburn-haired, 6’4”, with a deep-set brow and decent jawline. He had narrow eyes, but upon close inspection they revealed startlingly green irises. He was a catch, he told himself. He didn’t need that… that… that bitch. He needed to make an effort to spit it out, even in his head. Under his breath he tried again, “That… b-bitch. Bitch.” No more vegetarian diet. No more Sunday social justice rallies. No more acceding to her decisions on every wardrobe purchase. No more baby-faced-clean-shaven “I don’t like the way your stubble scratches my skin.” He drained the rest of his beer. No more “alcohol is for wife-beaters and hobos.” He was going to do what he wanted, and what he wanted, was to fuck every bimbo from Calhoun’s to O’Kelly’s looking for a one-night stand. So, he decided he’d better work on himself first to make sure they found him irresistible. He grinned into his reflection. No more moping, no more feeling sorry for himself. He was going to hit the gym first thing tomorrow morning. --- It was 5 am, and the gym was mostly empty, by choice as he was sure he was going to embarrass himself. The gym had always intimidated Logan, as his long hours sitting behind a desk had left him with a rather doughy physique. He was 160 lbs and his past few years of vegetarianism had done little to put real muscle on his naturally tall and slim figure. “The very definition of skinny-fat,” he thought, using the new knowledge he had learned from a night of scrolling through every bodybuilding and hardgainer website he could lay his eyes on. Scanning around, he instead found that only the most hardcore lifters in the gym were around at this time, and his jaw gaped in awe at the ripped physiques around him lifting incalculable weights all the way overhead, then letting hundreds of pounds of iron crash thunderously to the ground. The way those muscles moved and worked… fascinated him. A pang of regret hit him. If only he had even walked into a gym any time since high school, he was sure he’d have fallen into it by now. He couldn’t take his eyes off of them. Eventually, his desire to work on himself managed to rip his eyes away. Using video links from a beginner’s routine, he started to teach himself how to do the exercises he had planned for the morning. He was only supposed to use the bar and easy weights, but he felt unsatisfied by the lack of challenge. He decided to add some weight, ahead of schedule. Feeling the resistance as his body worked… the sensation was euphoric. He loved every second of it. By the end of the workout he was sprawled out on the ground with his face to the sky, sweating buckets, the burning soreness hurting so good, his only regret that he needed to wait an entire day before he could do this again. As he showered off the cooling water on his burning up body washed away his fatigue and he began his workday with a focus he never knew he could muster. That day Logan ate like a madman, gorging himself on meat, potatoes and vegetables and sipping at protein shakes non-stop throughout the day. As soon as he went home, he went right back to researching workouts, diets and supplements that would help him reach his goal. “Thank god,” he thought, “for same-day shipping.” --- Two weeks later, after cleaning up from his fifth enormous meal of the day (“code compiling” time became “stuff his face” time twice a day now), he went to the bathroom to do his business. While washing his hands he noticed that his shirt didn’t quite sit on himself the same way. Looking up, he was startled to see his own face, bristling with two weeks of stubble growth. He ran his hands over his growing beard, feeling the hard bristles scratch against his skin. He looked good. “Fuckin’ good,” he corrected himself. He couldn’t swear at work, so he was still being careful, but he was cultivating a devil-may-care attitude for when he finally worked up the courage to head down to the bar and swim with the fishes. But seeing his face like this was a revelation, a new perspective. He’d been clean shaven all his adult years and didn’t realize how beard could shape his jaw just so, and make him seem, older, tougher, stronger. “I’m never going to shave again”, he resolved. He growled at himself, snarling to see how intimidating he could be, and the muscles of his neck tensed, drawing his attention down to his collar that seemed to rise a little bit more than before. He put his hand beneath his shirt and felt it – small hard mounds that had replaced the softness that had previously been there. Nowhere near the size and definition of any of the guys he stared at in his peripheral vision at 5 am every other day, but a far cry from the softness he had felt all over for years. Unable to resist, he pulled his shirt off over his head and looked at himself. He saw pecs. Pecs just on the verge of existing, where you can rub your chest and finally feel some flesh moving underneath. His suspicions confirmed, he donned his shirt again. He rubbed his stomach, still bulging a bit from all the food he had just ate, but quickly put that from his mind. He closed his eyes and summoned the testosterone within him. Imagining it coursing through his veins, addling his brain, giving him confidence. In his mind’s eye, his handsome face and shape clinched it. He was ready to head to the bar. “Whiskey, neat,” he demanded, for the fourth time straight. Just like the other three, he downed it in a single gulp. From his college years, he knew he needed a few to get the liquid courage going. Slamming the glass onto the bar, he looked up and scanned around the room. The busty babes seemed to glow in front of him. There! One was looking straight at him. Perfect. He flashed her an easy smile, then sauntered on over. Ten minutes later he was jamming his fuckrod down her throat in a bathroom stall. Waves of pleasure coursing through him, he tilted his head up, closed his eyes and sneered, his growing whiskers opening up to reveal his teeth in a cocky grin. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been. Before he could nod in her general direction and grunt “Yo, wanna fuck?” she had thrown herself onto his arm and they were off to the races. Granted, she wasn’t a bombshell, but what had he even been psyching himself up for? Thirty minutes later, he was done, but his ego demanded more. Three whiskeys later he was on his second lay of the night. Eventually, he blacked out, deliriously happy. The next morning, at 4 am, still buzzed and roaring with testosterone, he told the bitch to get out, made himself the breakfast of champions, and headed right to the gym, where he hit the weights harder than ever. --- Two weeks later, Logan found himself at a gun show upstate. He’d never fired a gun before, except in video games, years ago, before he’d been indoctrinated by his “we need more gun control, and violent video games cause serial killers” ex. Tripping on how much he had enjoyed rebelling against his former, meatless, beardless, tee-totalling self, he was raring to go on the rest of that guns and ‘merica shit. Glancing around the room he knew he had found his type. This is where the real men were – rugged, burly individualists who didn’t take shit from no one. He found himself a buddy in a redheaded giant of a man with a Van Dyke named Bronson, covered head-to-toe in 5.11 Tactical gear. After some good natured offensive jokes and back slaps, Logan found himself down several thousands of dollars and up a glock, an AR-15 rifle, and some tactical wear of his own. Now 180 lbs, he was finally starting to fit into the clothes he owned, which, tailored to more proportionate 6’4” guys, had always swamped him. Nevertheless, he had bigger plans and knew he’d be needing clothes made for beefier folk. After the show Bronson took him to the range and showed him how to shoot, and Logan fell in love with the loud crack of gunfire and the instantaneous destruction it caused on the other end. He loved the way the recoil kick of the shot would put tension on his frame and body. He resolved to come back once a week and fire to his heart’s content. “Yee-haw!” Bronson cried, “Next tahm, I’ll take ya huntin’! Shootin’s fun an’ all but there’s nothin’ like killin’ somethin’ an’ eatin’ it right there!” Logan salivated at the thought. They headed over to a nearby buffet and emptied it out between the two of them, before saying their goodbyes. Unfortunately, Bronson lived two hour’s drive in the opposite direction, so they wouldn’t be able to do much but meet at the range once in a while, but Logan had never before had a real buddy the way men do, who needed few words between them but could shoot and eat a horse together all the same. --- “An adult male weighs at least 200 pounds.” Logan had read Rippetoe’s words over and over again during he research, and no matter how the ladies grabbed at his muscles, after each personal record set in the gym, no matter how tight his clothes were feeling over his frame, in these long past three months he had never felt adequate because of this phrase. Stepping on the scale after his post-workout shower, his mind seized as he saw the number: 202.6. He ran over to the mirror, nearly bowling over an older man. His scowling, fully bearded face oozed aggression as he tensed every muscle, pumped as hell from the bodybuilding routine he had switched to after hitting his initial 225 lbs bench goal just last week. His eyes glanced at the frail man beside him, then back to himself. He roared and then exhaled powerfully in and out like a gorilla. No one would mistake him for a computer nerd now. In fact, at a company-wide meeting the day before, several of the new hires mistook him as the CEO of the company because of how much his simple presence dominated the room. Right after, he had a performance review with his manager where the portly, bespectacled man stammered and muttered his way through the interview before offering him the biggest raise of his life. No one questioned him about his changes over the past three months, as he was more focused and productive than ever. Sauntering into his workplace after yet another record-setting breakfast, he winked at the secretary who he’d laid just last week, filled his favourite mug with protein shake from the gallon jug of it he brought every day, then went to his desk, cracked his knuckles, and then had a thought. What he would do with a bit of extra time in his day… He had been enjoying his extra 48 hours a week immensely between the workouts, hunting, eating, binge drinking and fucking but he felt like he could be doing more. A lightbulb went off in his head – automation. For the rest of his day, he browsed Stack Exchange seeing which of his tasks were automatable and what it would take to do them, but it wasn’t easy. Still, he started to imagine what he could do with more “compiling time” in his day and looked forward to the challenge. The day flew by and he was on top of the world. Feeling high from his progress both on his body and at work, Logan stepped into the bar, downed a whiskey, and arrogantly scanned the room. He wasn’t looking for clearly flirty bimbo this time, he was looking for the most beautiful woman in the room. He found a trophy blonde, beelined for her, tilted her chin up towards him and demanded. “You. Me. Fuck. Now.” She giggled, seeming torn somehow, until Logan felt a tap on the shoulder and realized a jacked, stubbly frat boy building like a linebacker was looking up at him. The frat boy shoved himself between the babe and him and snarled. “She’s mine.” Logan sneered but before he could say anything a fist was flying at his face. He took a painful stab to the jaw and swung right back at his assailant’s abdomen. The frat boy tackled him to the ground and they wrestled it out, while a circle formed around them, yelling encouragement while the blonde fanned herself, living out a long-imagined fantasy of being fought over by two jacked-up studs. A bouncer came over but a bystander took a swing at him, and soon everyone in the circle had joined the fray. After thirty minutes of wrestling at each other, everyone else long since having dropped out, exhausted, Logan and the frat boy separated, and lay side by side laughing heartily. “Damn, fucker, you’re strong!” The frat boy picked himself up and offered a hand to Logan, “I’m Darryl. Yourself?” “I’m Logan. Fuck, man. Don’t I see you at Metroflex all the time?” This guy had been one of the ripped gymgoers Logan had been so intimated by three months ago. Sizing him up now, Darryl clearly still had twenty pounds on him, but on a 6’ frame that made him seem even more jacked. “Yeah dude. Join me for a smoke outside.” It was Logan’s first smoke, but he had grown to love the smell of tobacco at gun shows. He took deep drags that heightened his sensations and he found he could easily stomach a lung full of acrid smoke. He liked smoking. It made him feel tough. That night, the Darryl and his blonde, Candy, introduced Logan to the concept of a threesome, and Candy took both of their caveman dicks hungrily all night. Logan left that night satisfied by both a good fuck and by having found a new workout buddy. --- The next morning, Logan and Darryl met up for their workout and Darryl had a little locker room secret to show him: steroids. Darryl was juiced to the gills for the varsity team and needed to start selling to help pay his monthly costs. Logan didn’t need a second thought – instantly money changed hands and they jabbed each other in preparation for what Darryl promised was going to be a mindblowing workout. Starting to get pumped even before beginning, Logan licked his lips in anticipation. It was better than he could have ever imagined. Aggression pumping through his brain, seeing red. Logan roared with each rep, smashing each of his previous lifts by thirty pounds each. His pump was so rock hard and ready to burst that he could feel himself squeezing, growing out of his skin each time he flexed in the mirror, hair matted with sweat, wild eyes and a toothy grin peeking through his full beard looking like a wild beast. “The fuckin’ best part?” Darryl remarked cockily, “on gear you can lift every day. You’ve been around every other day, I know, but you haven’t seen me on your off days since you’re so fuckin’ consistent. It’s time for you to bless this gym daily now. Every. Fuckin’. Day.” Afterwards, Logan treated Darryl to an all-you-can-eat buffet for breakfast. By this point, Logan barely went to any other kind of eating establishment, and even Darryl could barely believe how much Logan could eat: thirty strips of bacon, sixteen eggs, eight pieces of toast slathered in butter, three bowls of plain Greek yogurt and eighteen sausages, washed down with six glasses of milk. They parted ways and Logan growled, still raring to go. At work, for the first time ever, Logan couldn’t keep focused. He decided it was time to pull the trigger on his automated scripts. As they ran, he did pushups, dips, pistol squats, anything and everything that came to mind. Once the first script was complete, he found that with the extra exercise he had settled down a bit and could sit down and complete tasks that required his full attention. Every couple of hours he would find himself filling back up with pent up energy. So once again he’d run one of his scripts, workout or eat in the meanwhile, then come back with enough of a clear mind to keep working. By the end of the day he was calm enough to do more complex tasks and so he had a new routine established.
  7. Parts 1-3 Parts 4-6 Parts 7-9 One month saw Dan a transformed man. Puberty had struck, hard. Dan’s last growth spurt had left him five inches taller, but thin and gangly. This time, spurred by his superhuman levels of testosterone and fuckton calorie intake, he had just exploded. He was 5’9”, 135 lbs to start. He was now 6’1” and 220 lbs, up eighty-five pounds and bigger than Gordon. His hair had grown back a little, rough and bristly but still short, tapering to a point on his forehead and bleached light brown by the summer sun. His face had squared out, losing some baby fat and his jawline had been reinforced with heavy stubble which now extended the line of his sideburns down his cheeks, jaw and chin and connected with a light moustache upon his lip. He was trying to grow a beard like his father’s, who he idolized in every way. Every day he took his measurements, comparing them to Bruce’s and desperately praying that he’d catch up. Even in this past month, Bruce had continued his progress and his stats dwarfed Dan’s: twenty-four inch arms to nineteen, 300 pounds even to 220. When Bruce had reached 300 pounds he had cut himself loose, talking up every woman in the street who dared turned her head, seducing them and one by one fucking their brains out until they were shivering, squealing heaps on the ground. Still unsatisfied and restless, he had knocked on Mr. Connor’s door and they had spent hours wrestling, pressing the vast surfaces of their muscles together and providing each other the exertion that no one else in town could properly offer them. Naked in front of the mirror, Dan inspected the changes to his body, his previous life as Samuel a distant dream overrun by the constant rush of aggression that eternally infused every cell in his brain. He had a proud chest, the upper and lower pectorals split by a strict line of definition, protruding enough that he derived pleasure from rubbing them against surfaces without any of the rest of his body touching. His neck, traps and shoulders had filled out the massive gaps that had been there before, which along with his squaring jaw gave a sense of intimidating denseness to his silhouette. He was twice as broad as he was a month ago, his rounded shoulders and bulging arms pushed out by the spread of his corded lateral muscles. His wrists spoke of massive bone growth, having grown to a thick eight inches from six before. He ran his hand down his washboard abs, feeling his fingers patter along the mounds until they were stopped by his erect cock. He drummed his fingers down his member, as if casting a spell that would cause it to grow further than it already had. Seven inches wasn’t big enough for him, but he was confident that the growth hadn’t ended. After all, his feet had dramatically expanded, from size 10 to size 16, and he knew the saying about big in the shoes. There was a knock at the door. Dan put on some pants and opened. Outside, blocking nearly the entirety of the frame of the door, was Mr. Connors. Mr. Connors ran his rough hands down Dan’s sides, his thumbs tracing the bottom of his pecs. He took a hand and pressed on Dan’s shoulder, feeling the padding, and then slid down, feeling the rock hard muscles of his arms. He huffed in approval . “Time to learn some football?” “Yes, sir.” Dan followed him out the door and just behind him, was Gordon. A rush of memories came back momentarily, but Dan’s confidence in his new body was unshakeable. He held his head up and strode out proudly. “Who’s this, dad?” Gordon asked, “He ain’t from around here.” “A new teammate, now no more questions, boy.” Dan walked right up close to Gordon and they sized each other up, face to face. Dan realized that Gordon had been doing some growing of his own. In the past month, Gordon had grown two inches, which Dan noted with satisfaction meant that he was now two inches taller. But the jock had grown laterally into his frame, looking less now like the proportionate hunk he was before but rather starting to look more juiced up and massive like his father. He had put on perhaps fifteen pounds, mostly in his upper body, making him thicker than before, and with all that extra weight spread on a shorter frame, he looked hulking in comparison to Dan. Dan had thought he had surpassed his once-tormentor, but now he realized furiously that he was still smaller and he was filled with a bitter, driving dissatisfaction. He felt the craving rising up within him, the hunger for more, the drive to be bigger, better. “Alright, Dan, time to learn how to tackle.” Dan had known that Gordon was the star quarterback on the team, but what he hadn’t realized before was that Gordon was known particularly for his unstoppable rushing. His throwing arm was real good, but using his big frame and power, Gordon would smash through the enemy’s defense and it would take several guys to take him down. This is the man Dan would have to practice tackling. For hours they drilled on end, with Gordon, ball in arm, charging straight forward and Dan trying to block him, Mr. Connors shouting advice from the side and sometimes demonstrated what to do, but Gordon was unstoppable. Dan knew what the problem was. He wasn’t big enough. Even just ten pounds lighter, he felt puny compared to Gordon, and he wouldn’t be able to stop him until he was the one dwarfing him. He tensed his arms, as he lowered into the partial squat ready position, feeling what power he had. It wasn’t enough. He would get better at tackling and running along with his progress on the iron. Seeing the fiery ambition in the eyes of his new recruit, Mr. Connors smiled in satisfaction. He had a new linebacker. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Late August arrived, along with football tryouts. A fierce pleasure erupted in Dan as he realized that he was the biggest guy there. He had outpaced Gordon in every way since they had started working out together, growing three inches taller and packing on forty pounds of muscle onto his frame to Gordon’s one inch and ten extra pounds. They were buddies now, a friendship forged by rivalry, by ramming into one another over and over like bulls. Dan though, was emerging as the clear winner. He could now stop Gordon, easily. Dan had become overwhelming strong, fueled by the determination to beat each and every one of Gordon’s personal records. Bench press: 405 lbs (to Gordon’s 385) Rows: 375 lbs (to 335) Overhead press: 245 lbs (to 215) Squat: 535 lbs (to 405) Deadlift: 705 lbs (to 465) Pull-ups: 15 (3 plates added) As Dan stepped on the field, he heard whispers all around him, rumours of where the monstrous Dan Davidson had come from. Some said he was a twenty-two year old undercover cop. Some said he was the pinnacle result of seventy years of secret Soviet eugenics. Dan paid them no attention. He was here to dominate each and every one of them on the field. He finished tryouts leaving several of the football team’s seniors lying flat on the ground wondering what had happened. He went over to Gordon, who was standing next to a similar pile. No one save Dan had come close to stopping a rush from Gordon, and Dan could hold three guys on the line by himself, laughing mad at his strength all the while. By the end of the week Dan had earned the nickname “The Great Wall,” cementing his spot as the starting linebacker on the team. The team worshipped the ground he walked on, and his power and size had become the goal of every guy on the team. Those who hadn’t been juicing had taken it up eagerly, already seeing some results and loving it. To everyone, every day was now gym day. For junior year, Dan and Gordon had unleashed an unprecedentedly large and aggressive jock population upon their high school. When school started, Dan roamed the hallways like a lion. He took what he wanted, fucking girls, guys, teachers, even the principal, who soon divorced her pathetic beta of a husband and dedicated herself as a slave to Dan’s every whim. As a result, his will in school was law, and he was judge, jury and enforcer. He would grab puny little geeks by the collar and whisper into their ear, “You like the feeling of power?” He would then rub them over his muscles, wrapping their whole bodies around his bulging, monstrous pecs and feeling for their dicks to inevitably rise. Then he’d roar in a thunderous bass, “Little fuckin’ faggot! This is fuckin’ power! Get a little bigger and maybe I’ll let you suck my cock,” and then slam them whimpering on the ground. A surprising number of them could later be found in the weight room, obsessively trying to push what little weight they could. Four months later, with Dan and Mr. Connors in charge, everything about the school had changed. With Gordon obliterating all defenses, Dan destroying any semblance of offense, and growing, hungry monsters filling every other position, the football team was now unmatched and crushed school after school. The team was central to the whole school and every single boy, desperate to join, worked out and juiced in the school’s gym, which now covered a third of the school grounds. Male students were now required to attend school shirtless, a policy eagerly taken to by all. Surrounded by something resembling peers, Dan thrived, growing bigger than ever. 6’5” and 305 pounds, his twenty-four inch arms pulsed with power, threatening to throttle anyone who dared challenge him. Bruce had grown extraordinarily rich, The Naked Butcher now serving as a front for the biggest steroids supplier in the United States, protected by hundreds of enormous, young, aggressive gang members willing to kill to secure their supply. A young thug sauntered into the shop, declaring he had news for Bruce. Bruce listened, dismissed him, and left, barking out instructions to scores of lackeys to cover for his absence. He then took off in his Hummer, heading over to the hospital. The desk clerk bowed to him in deference, before taking him to the ward where Lisa lay. Mr. Connors was already there. He held a baby boy, fourteen pounds, with a keen expression in his face. “This kid’ll grow up with no fuckin’ weakling bullshit. No prissy beta men tellin’ him he oughta be nice and serve others and be a general fuckin’ pussy. None of that holdin’ him back. We raise this kid as a man.” The baby reached out, grasped Bruce’s beard, and pulled with all its strength. A strange light filled Bruce’s eyes. He thought of the dozens, hundreds of women he and his son had filled with their potent seed. An army whose sole purpose was to grow strong and to acquire power. He felt the last vestige of the Bruce he once was, the gentle, kind, respectful soul, finally fade away to black. Power is Everything. “Fuck yeah.”
  8. Parts 1-3 Parts 4-6 Parts 10-11 On gear, Bruce’s growth was explosive. A month had passed, and he had put on forty-five pounds on the scale and another four inches on his arms. His face was broader, aptly supported by a thick corded neck and traps that wrapped around like a yoke. His shoulders were globes, leading both to the sinewy ridges of his back and to powerfully separated biceps and triceps. His crushing forearms were covered in veins leading down to his meaty hands, in which he handled the large slabs of meat that were not unlike his pecs. The ridges of his back were mirrored by the ridges of his obliques leading to cobblestone abs that were now fully developed. All of this lay on the solid trunk of his quads and butt, propelled by powerful bulging calves. None of his old clothes fit and so he had torn each and every one apart with his hands and had burned them in a huge pile. He worked out now in a wife beater and shorts, and that was all he wore around the house. Even when he went out all he would add would be a flannel button-up and jeans that could barely contain his new mass. He buzzed his hair and gave up shaving altogether, choosing instead to keep a minimally kempt short beard. The meat shop, no, butcher shop as he now insisted it be called, was doing better than ever. Women and some men from all over town flocked over to chat and with a little flex here and a pec bounce there and they could be persuaded to buy almost anything. Samuel was pretty sure his father hadn’t slept with any of them but it was hard to tell, it certainly seemed like he was tempted. Ever since he realized that on steroids he no longer needed rest days, every day was workout day. Bruce pretty much just ate, fucked Vena and worked out all day. That suited Lisa just fine, who had started to show some signs of pregnancy. Her bouts with Mr. Connors were becoming less frequent as a result, but they still happened several times a week and miraculously Mr. Connors and Bruce had still never had a confrontation. Bruce was easily bigger than Gordon now. He was 245 pounds to Gordon’s 215, and Samuel had taken the chance and spied on one of Gordon’s training sessions once more. It turns out he skipped leg day every so often and his lower body wasn’t as developed. Still, Gordon was damn strong: Bench press: 320 lbs Rows: 275 lbs Overhead press: 155 lbs Squat: 315 lbs Deadlift: 375 lbs Pull-ups: 15 (1 plate added) Even Bruce couldn’t match that bench press number, but otherwise he was stronger: Bench press: 295 lbs Rows: 285 lbs Overhead press: 175 lbs Squat: 405 lbs Deadlift: 455 lbs Pull-ups: 17 (1 plate added) Any notion Samuel had that his father would solve his bullying problems had been long since shattered however. He tried to bring it up but Bruce had just snarled with contempt. “You’re your own man, aren’t you? Solve your own fuckin’ problems.” In fact, Bruce barely took any notice of Samuel at all. The bigger, stronger, and better he grew, the more he saw his son for the weak pathetic brat he was. Samuel had been to the basement many times, but the idea of him taking up weights was so incongruent to his sense of self that he couldn’t even bear to pick anything up. The one thing he could look forward to was that the school year was coming to an end. In just three weeks he wouldn’t be forced to go to the den of the bullies and he could spend time alone, away from everyone. That night, he heard the first altercation from his parents for the first time since everything began. He couldn’t hear much more than the low rumble of his father’s voice and a growingly insistent vocalization from his mother, so he snuck closer, staying behind the wall next to the door. “Mmm, Bruce, you know I want to, so fucking bad, but no.” A growl from his father, “Fuck it, cunt. What’s it to him?” He slid his large hands over to cup her breasts, then ran them down her midsection. With two thick fingers he began to rub her clit rhythmically. There was a moan of pleasure from Lisa, but then the sound of her rolling away. “You’re so damn sexy now,” she admitted, breathing heavily, “but he’s still bigger than you, Bruce, way bigger. I serve him now, not you.” Bruce gave a murmur of displeasure, “Rolf and I are gonna have a little talkin’ to.” The following afternoon, Bruce came home to find himself face to face with Mr. Connors. The man was, as always, in his coach’s suit, tightly fitted, every line of the suit stretched along the ridges of his awesome muscles, broadening their lines even further. Bruce stepped right up to his face, using his inch of height to look down on him, but Samuel could see the difference, a sixty pound difference. His father was strong now but Rolf Connors, that man was a brick shithouse. Bruce unbuttoned his flannel, throwing it down to the side. In acknowledgement, Mr. Connors shrugged off his suit jacket. Bruce removed his wife beater, exposing his bare chest and the ripples of muscle underneath. Mr. Connors smiled and obliged. He flexed into a most muscular, popping the buttons of his Oxford shirt and shredding it to tatters. Samuel was transfixed. The football coach’s shoulders were absolute boulders, their size matched only by his powerful pecs, which twitched explosively every time he moved his enormous python arms. His abs weren’t developed in the same way as Bruce’s, instead faintly outlining a muscle gut on a waist solid enough to be worthy of his nickname “Immovable.” Bruce swung first, with a right hook to the face. It hit Mr. Connors square on the cheekbone. He recoiled a bit, surprised at the force behind the swing, before taking a swing of his own. Bruce was faster though, and managed to dodge underneath. He spun around, landing a fist right into Mr. Connors’ midsection, but his fist hit a rock hard wall. He shook out his throbbing hand, and then deftly stepped back, but this time Mr. Connors was ready for him. The mustachioed man grabbed Bruce from under his arms, hoisting him up and lifting him above his head, and then threw him hard to the ground. Bruce rolled as he hit the floor, then leaped from the floor with a resounding uppercut to the jaw. Mr. Connors gave a grunt of pain, but was otherwise unmoved. Bruce, seeing how little damage he had done, stopped, and was quiet for a moment. Then, he began laughing heartily. Surprisingly, Mr. Connors joined in, and the rumble of both their voices shook the house, harder and harder. “Fuck man, Immovable, huh?” “Your throw a solid punch, Davidson.” Mr. Connors slapped Bruce on the back, and then both men shook hands in mutual respect. Bruce opened the front door and gestured outwards, and they waltzed out together like old friends. “Who’s yer dealer? Mine does most of the football team but had never heard of you. I’d been wonderin’.” “Fuck, just some dealer on the internet. Just did a little research is all.” “You gotta try this guy man. He deals some quality shit. Quality shit I tell you.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- With Mr. Connor’s steroids coursing through his body, Bruce’s progress renewed with vigour. By the end of the school year, he had put on another forty pounds, putting him at 285. He had put another three inches on his arms, up to a total of twenty-three inches, but the biggest difference of all lay in his strength. Samuel’s notebook read: Bench press: 385 lbs Rows: 355 lbs Overhead press: 225 lbs Squat: 515 lbs Deadlift: 565 lbs Pull-ups: 12 (3 plates added) The numbers boggled Samuel’s mind. He was sure his father could take Mr. Connors in a fight now, and he just dwarfed Gordon. Not that this would ever happen now. To his horror, Mr. Connors and his father had become fast friends, buddies even. They often worked out together and played football with Gordon in their free time. Bruce had ditched a layer of clothing altogether with the warming weather. Any time he spent with a shirt at all was in one of his wife beaters, now stretched to extremes accommodating his ever expanding muscles. The rest of the time, while at home or walking about or on sprints, Bruce remained shirtless. He’d also been experimenting with other body modifications. He got a tattoo on his bicep and another on the opposite deltoid. The first was barbed wire for flexing at the butcher shop, the second was a skull and two barbells with the words “Power is Everything” inked indelibly underneath. He had bleached his chestnut hair and beard blonde, looking now like a bearded twin of Mr. Connors. The two shared Lisa, taking turns with her or even fucking her together in orgies with other hot ladies from the shop. Lisa, having now not one but two massive muscle masters to serve, was catatonic with pleasure. Mr. Connors, being a physical education teacher at the end of the year with little to do, often came to the shop, now called “The Naked Butcher,” and the two of them would shoot the shit. They would take turns bringing clients to the office out back and fucking the lights out of them. Samuel couldn’t imagine his life more ruined than this. He headed out past both of them in the living room desperate to get out alone and find some peace, but Mr. Connors called out: “Samuel.” Samuel froze like a deer in headlights. This was practically the first time they had noticed him altogether. He was like an ant to them. Even his father was now more than twice his size. “Samuel. Why the fuck do ye call him that? Samuel sounds weak. Dan sounds strong. If we want to change him we oughta stop referring to him with a pussy name.” “Dan it is then. Fuck me. What’re we gonna do with him?” “Bruce, I respect ye, but yer son is the puniest sorry sack of shit I’ve ever laid my fuckin’ eyes on. Lay down the law. That’s what I did with Gordon and look at him now. He’s a taker. He takes what he wants and gives no fucks. Once the new baby is born, do ye want him to outgrow Dan? Cut his hair. He looks like that Bieber girl. Can’t have yer son lookin’ like a fuckin’ pussy like that.” “You’re fuckin’ right, mate. Dan.” “Yes dad?” “No more dad this, father that shit. Either ye man up enough to call me by my name proper or it’s sir to you, boy!” “Yes, sir.” “Now, while you’re in my house, there are no fuckin’ shirts. If I see ye in one, I’ll fuckin’ rip it to shreds, get me?” “Yes, sir.” Mr. Connors went off and the first thing Bruce did was grab a razor and buzz Dan’s hair real short. Dan sat, dazed, as he saw chestnut pile up all around him. He felt lightheaded, but all the same Bruce pushed him down dazed and confused into the basement. He was going to start straight away with the strength training. “Now, I’m going to watch you with just the bar. We don’t leave here until ye’ve performed everythin’ with the right form, perfect and to my fuckin’ standard. Bench first.” He lay on the bench, and Bruce placed his hands into the right grip. He unracked the bar and lowered it shakily to his chest and back. “Again.” He tried again. “Again.” This continued until Bruce was somewhat satisfied, and he continued in that fashion all the way to pull-ups. When he saw Dan couldn’t perform a single one, he spat in disgust. “Fuck, fine. Negatives for now then. Don’t know why I didn’t start ye earlier.” After the session, made a meal for them, one bigger than Dan had ever seen. Bruce wolfed down a metric ton as usual, but this time, he forced Dan to eat too. Plate after plate Dan would obediently finish, but after only four plates he started to feel sick. Bruce commanded him to keep eating but he couldn’t swallow one more bite. He tried to put the food but his gag reflex triggered and he threatened to vomit out everything he just put in. Annoyance flashed across his father’s face but he laid off for now. He ordered Dan to stay put while he went to the kitchen sink and pulled out an enormous vat of chocolate protein powder from underneath. He took some bananas and peanut butter and water and blended it all up, and then gave it to Dan. “Ye’ll be drinkin’ this the rest of the day. Three a day, until you can start eatin’ like a real man.” Far from being the relief he had desperately desired, the holidays now filled Dan with misery. He followed the four day schedule his father had started with, but far from progressing at the rapid rate Bruce had quickly maintained, his father made him drill with the bar over and over again, calling him pathetic when his shaky arms collapsed and he couldn’t continue on for the day. He felt sick from gorging himself with food all the time and shivered every time a breeze blew past his bare, thin chest. He tried several times in secret to put one on, to even just hold a shirt close to himself to cover up for warmth, when he knew Bruce was out for work. Every time, though, he was caught, and Bruce would menacingly tear his shirt to shreds with barely any effort. He was quickly running out of spares. Every morning he woke up with aching sores across his entire body. Every night, shivering and wrapped up in his sheets, he sobbed quietly. But the only response he got was, “Shit son, man the fuck up. I guarantee ye’ll look back one day and hate what a fuckin’ pussy you are now.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A week passed and finally the shaking stopped. Dan found that during the workouts the exertion gave him a sort of warmth that provided some relief, and on off days he had started doing push-ups and bodyweight squats to try to warm up whenever he could. He could now complete several reps with the bar with form that earned him a nod of approval from his father, who had decreed that he would start adding weight to his lifts. Dan had nearly passed out in fear. The next workout day Bruce called out to Dan, “Dan, time to workout. Addin’ weight today.” Dan gathered all his courage, and spoke one word. “No.” “What did ye say to me, little fucker?” Bruce brought his whole might to bear in front of Dan, his face narrowed with rage, his muscles tensing in anticipation of swift, decisive action. Dan watched his father’s chest contract, the cleavage of his pecs popping out, able to crush Dan’s wrist on their own. His padded shoulders dropped aggressively, rising and falling with his angry breaths. He slightly bent his knees, flexing the powerful pistons of his quads and calves. If Dan attempted to escape, he’d be flattened before he could take a step, “No… sir,” Dan squeaked, much more weakly this time, his courage ebbing away. Bruce growled and started for Dan, but he stopped and considered a moment. “Why?” “I-I’m… I’m scared,” Dan managed to sputter out. “Ha!” Bruce bellowed with satisfaction. “I know what’ll fix ye up.” He slung Dan roughly over his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him and went into the office. He retrieved a cardboard box from under the table, and Dan realized what was happening. He started to kick, to struggle, but he was smothered between engorged deltoid and forearm and was unable to escape. Bruce laughed in contempt as Dan’s feet pattered harmlessly on his well-padded back. He hoisted Dan over his head to switch him over to his left side, and then with his other hand prepared the syringe. “No,” Dan protested weakly. Bruce shifted his grip, pinning Dan’s upper arm into motionlessness. “No!” Dan cried. Bruce jabbed the syringe into Dan’s upper arm, releasing the contents into the flesh. “NOOOO!!!” At first Dan felt only soreness, a pulsing burning sensation localized in his shoulder, then, quickly, a surge of heat radiated down his arms and body. Emotions started to well up in him, jumbled and confused. Anger at his lot in life. An inexplicable, powerful, erotic horniness, a lust for strength and power. Confidence, as if he could do anything. He was Superman, he could walk through walls and sweep anyone out of his path. But the most overwhelming feeling of all was of aggression. He felt an overpowering need to channel force, to assert himself, to take action. He opened his eyes, finding himself with his back on the bench, and then he felt a very heavy weight dropping on him, pushing down on his chest and threatening to crush him. He could feel the roughness of the middle grip of the steel bar scraping on his bare chest. He exhaled forcefully and pushed upward. This was far more weight than he had ever handled in his life, and he could feel the resistance of gravity as he struggled upward, but he locked out fearlessly. There was not an ounce of fear left in his body. “One. Again.” An automatic reaction had been drilled into him over the past week. Without hesitation he lowered the bar, and pushed it up again. “Two.” Feeling the need to exert more effort, he grunted in that guttural almost-roar he remembered so vividly he dreamed about it at night. Yes, it felt easier. “Three.” And so he continued, struggling with each rep but locking out each time with a loud grunt of effort. For the last one he groaned long and hard as he slowly pushed upwards, exerting more force than he ever had before. Lock out. “Eight. Enough.” Dan racked the bar and jumped up, yelling in triumph and pumping his fists. It felt like an eternity before the next set. He couldn’t wait to do it again. It would be easier this time, he was sure of it. And so it was. Every time he completed a set, Bruce nodded in approval and Dan was filled with exultation. When all was done Dan was able to complete the whole routine: Bench press: 85 lbs Rows: 85 lbs Overhead press: 65 lbs Squat: 135 lbs Deadlift: 155 lbs Pull-ups: 5 He knew those were shameful numbers, but he had seen enough now that the anticipation of his rapid strength gains was enough to give him shivers. Bruce slapped him on the back. “Only one way to finish a workout like that, son. FUCK YEAH!” He bellowed. “Fuck yeah!” Dan bellowed back. “Louder! FUCK YEAH!” “FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAAHHHHH!”
  9. Parts 1-3 Parts 7-9 Parts 10-11 Monday came and Samuel left for school early. His mom was still sleeping and his dad was at work so he put together two pieces of toast, noticed that there weren’t any eggs left, and poured himself the last of the milk from the carton. Football practice was today, and he knew that they always started with weights in the morning in order to make time for drills in the evening. He wanted to go see for himself just how strong Gordon was. He got to the window of the weight room just in time, and his eyes bulged out as he saw bars loaded with plates. All of these guys were clearly monsters, but he zoomed onto Gordon who was trying to one up one of the senior linemen at the bench press. They kept on loading plate after plate onto the bar. Finally, on a particularly heavy set, the lineman’s eyes bulged and he wriggled mightily, but couldn’t push the bar up all the way. Gordon pumped himself up, doing a haka of sorts filled with flexing poses. He threw himself onto the bench and lifted up the bar, slowly after first, shaking, but finally exploding upwards into a lock out. He racked the weight, jumped up and ripped off his shirt, roaring in triumph and pulling a double bi, his arms, back and chest pumped to high heaven, exploding with power. Samuel held his breath and counted the weights on the bar. 1 plate, 2 plates, 3 plates! Gordon could bench a full 315 pounds! He took out his notebook. His dad had done 135 pounds. Almost two hundred pounds less. He was devastated. Mr. Connors was enormous. If Gordon had eighty pounds on Samuel, Mr. Connors had a further ninety pounds on Gordon. And where did that leave him in the mix? He struggled with just the bar. He continued watching Gordon, marking down all of his lifts: Bench press: 315 lbs Rows: 265 lbs Overhead press: 155 lbs But Gordon didn’t do all of the same lifts as his dad did. Samuel watched as Gordon curled dumbbells, barbells and cables in several different ways. Slowly, lovingly, squeezing his prodigious biceps with each rep. He tucked away the notebook in jacket. Maybe for now he’d just record the lifts that his dad did as well. He continued watching for a while, savouring the view as he watched each jock pump up his muscles just a little bit more, squeezing in a little more blood in order to grow and get - SMACK! Samuel was hit upside the head. Dazed, he looked up. It was Gordon. “What’re ya doing here, dweeb? Watchin’ the jocks get all pumped and sweaty? You a fag? A fag with a whore mother?” He put his arm across Samuel’s neck, his swollen bicep pressing hard into Samuel’s Adam’s apple. Samuel tried to make a sound but. He couldn’t. Breathe. RINGGGG! The school bell rung and Gordon released Samuel from his headlock. Samuel gasped. Sweet, sweet air rushed into his lungs, and the heat in his face started to flow away. “Hah! Know your place, dweeb! If you’re good, maybe I’ll let ya watch me bench some time!” That evening, Samuel was doing homework at the kitchen table when the door burst open. In came Bruce loaded with bags. Bruce winked at Samuel. “Thought our fridge was getting a little empty, so I brought back a little something from the shop. Help me get these in the fridge will you?” In the bags was three gallon jugs of milk, four dozen eggs and stacks upon stacks of meat of all kinds: sausages, bacon, steak, chuck, game, ground, and more. There was sweet potatoes, rice and some vegetables. These were in reasonable quantities but as Samuel unpacked them he kept on uncovering more meat to add to what was becoming an extremely stuffed fridge. When he was done he could already hear his father grunting away below. His heart fell as he remembered the numbers Gordon was putting up in comparison, but he went down to check on his dad anyway. To his surprise, there was more weight on the plate than last time. So quickly? Samuel took out his notebook as Bruce exploded with each rep, determination written all over. Bench press: 145 lbs Rows: 125 lbs Overhead press: 90 lbs Squat: 175 lbs Deadlift: 195 lbs Pull-ups: 7 Samuel’s heart filled with hope. His dad was still undeniably weak, but if he could get big, if he could get strong. Maybe, just maybe… That night, Samuel dreamed he was with his father, who was just the same as always: gentle, neat, unassuming. Jocks started surrounding them menacing, jeering, looming over them and threatening unimaginable pain, but Bruce threw away his glasses and ripped apart his clothes to reveal a Superman costume and a physique of rippling muscles. With a few swift punches, all the bullies were dealt with. And then, there was his mom, coming out demurely from behind a door. Unable to contain herself, she ran to her husband and threw herself at him. As he caught her, carrying her easily but gently with a single hand, she exclaimed proudly. “I’ll never leave you again! You’re the only one for me, my love!” --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Two weeks passed and Samuel had been astounded by his dad’s progress. He had fallen into a solid routine, pumping iron on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays and going out for sprints on Tuesdays and Fridays. Sundays were his day off, just like his work schedule. Every workout Samuel recorded a gain on every lift Bruce did, and currently his numbers were at: Bench press: 185 lbs Rows: 155 lbs Overhead press: 115 lbs Squat: 245 lbs Deadlift: 275 lbs Pull-ups: 10 Every breakfast Bruce would stuff himself with eggs, bacon, sausage and oatmeal and every night roast chickens and steaks were devoured wholesale. He didn’t make big bluster about his progress, but he was obviously pleased and sometimes flexed his bicep and let Samuel feel it, his son longing to measure them and see how close his dream was to becoming a reality. One night he had brought his son over and had commented, “You know son, there is a lot to be said about strength. I’ve been re-evaluating my position on strength and technique and you know what? Maybe they’re complementary. A little brute force can make your technique go a longer way. I’ve been feeling great at the shop lately, everything’s just that little bit easier.” He was so pleased he started doing some bodyweight workouts in the mornings of his workout days. Quickly he was progressing to handstand push-ups, diamond push-ups, and trying a variety of pullups, chin-ups and the like. The morning workouts and huge breakfasts were taking a toll on Bruce’s morning routine, however, and he stopped parting his hair, choosing instead to run a comb through it quickly just to straighten it out a bit and he gave up shaving altogether on workout days. Samuel’s life, on the hand, had taken a turn for the worse. Almost daily he returned home to the low groan of Mr. Connors’ orgasm and now that the game was up his mother had made no more attempts to hide how much pleasure she took in making love to the powerful man. The ceiling practically shook every time Samuel opened the door. Each time Mr. Connors came down the stairs, saw Samuel on the couch with his notebook and textbooks, huffed in contempt and then stepped out. The day Mr. Connors didn’t come Lisa had sat on the couch, openly masturbating with a huge vibrator that Samuel suspected was representative of Mr. Connor’s cock, yelling at the top of her lungs. “Big! Big! BIG! HUGE! ENORMOUS! STRONG! OH! OH! POWER! OHHHHHHHH!” One time, there was even someone else. It was Mr. Peters, the defensive coach and also a massive man, 6 foot and 280 pounds, though with a gut. He and Mr. Connors came down the stairs loudly, laughing and slapping each other on the back. That time they didn’t even take notice of Samuel as they sauntered out the door, bantering energetically the whole time. Samuel had taken a peek inside his parent’s room, and sure enough his mother had been left lying naked in bed, delirious with pleasure. The bullying, too, had gotten worse. Gordon Connors sought him out daily with remarkably accurate re-enactments of the noises Samuel heard up in his parents’ room every day. Every jock that passed him by would pelvic thrust and act out a woman’s orgasm. What few friends, more acquaintances, he had avoided him entirely. He coped by retreating into his Superman fantasy at every possible moment and charting out his dad’s progress in his notebook. He was fascinated with the rate at which his dad grew stronger, and he spent a great deal of time charting it out and excitedly guessing where Bruce would be in a week, in a month, in a year. Samuel visited the shop on a Saturday and had seen a long black-haired woman there. Spying through the window, he could see that she was very busty, wearing low cut top and letting her long straight hair fall over them as she sat on the counter, her short skirt leaving a lot of leg on display. She kept trying to tease Bruce, trying to stroke his stubble and ruffle his hair and snatch away his glasses, but he was stoic and polite through it all. Finally she ran her fingers down his shoulder and onto his bicep feeling it for a moment then tracing down his rolled up sleeve onto his forearm. She said something to Bruce which actually incited a smile, before he composed himself and rolled down his sleeve. Finally, she dropped down from the counter and sashayed over to the door, which jingled merrily as she opened it. “I’m telling you, lose the glasses and keep the scruff. You’d look so fucking sexy.” She had then noticed Samuel at the door, and gestured at him. “While you’re at it, cut his hair. He looks a like a Bieber wannabe.” Samuel recoiled at the thought. His hair was getting a bit long, but he never wanted to be anything like. What? No one could even think- Not long after, however, Bruce bought a pair of contact lenses. That evening, he had spent an abnormal amount of time in front of the mirror, scratching his stubble, rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning his collar. That night too Samuel noticed that his dad had pushed out a couple more reps on each of his lifts. But Bruce let Lisa cut Samuel’s hair, just as usual, and she trimmed it absentmindedly, almost as if he wasn’t even there. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Samuel could tell that Bruce was starting to get obsessed. Twice a day, he weighed himself. It had been about five weeks now, and Bruce was pushing 195 pounds. “Gotta get to two hundred, five more pounds, just five more,” he had been growling to himself the past couple of days. He had bought himself a soft tape measure, and after every workout had started measuring his arms. Sixteen and a half inches was the last measurement, impressive by Samuel’s standard, but Samuel heard him mutter under his breath. “So close to seventeen, so close!” Samuel could barely contain his glee as he saw his father come down the stairs each morning, struggling to button up his shirt. Bruce had never subscribed to the new fashion of buying everything small, but unbeknownst to him it was starting to look that way. It never occurred to Bruce that he might need to buy up a size now and he was starting to fill his clothes nicely. There was a slight strain every time he moved that reminded Samuel of Gordon’s polo shirts, and Samuel froze, shivering ever so slightly in delight whenever he noticed it. He was pushing solid weight now, numbers that Samuel never dreamed his dad would be lifting: Bench press: 205 lbs Rows: 185 lbs Overhead press: 135 lbs Squat: 285 lbs Deadlift: 315 lbs Pull-ups: 15 His morning workouts were too getting impressive. He was now onto one-handed push-ups, pistol squats, or he would do push-ups with Samuel sitting on his back. There was one worrying trend, however. Over the past week, his progress had begun to slow. Sometimes, he wouldn’t be able to add weight for a couple of workouts in a row. Every time that happened, he doubled down and beat himself up. Samuel was getting a bit worried. After all, Gordon had to be making progress too, right? Bruce’s bench was still over a hundred pounds lighter than the jock’s. If his dad was slowing down so soon, he might never catch up. Samuel dared not spy on the weight room again to confirm his suspicions. After every workout now Bruce was in a terrible mood, muttering underneath his breath and checking his weight again. Still not two hundred. That Monday, Samuel watched as his dad tried 210 on the bench again. Bruce took a deep breath and cracked his neck. He lay on the bench, pressing his hands lightly on the bar in anticipation. Then, a mighty heave and he unracked the bar. He slowly lowered it onto his chest, touching lightly before pushing back out with all his strength. Slowly the bar went up, up, up… and then paused half way. He tensed up and tried to push again. It rose, but less than an inch. He struggled, pushing, pushing, his face turning red and sweat pooling on his chest but it still wouldn’t rise. Finally he growled. “Help- Sam!” Samuel ran over and helped his dad rerack the weight. “FUCK!” Bruce snarled, “Fuckin’ useless. Fuckin’ weak! Samuel, I’m fine. Go.” Samuel went up the stairs but sat at the top step. He heard his dad struggle some more with the other lifts, cursing every time. This wasn’t what he had imagined. Finally, Bruce came up the stairs, drenched in sweat, he shoulders rising and falling wildly and his eyes narrowed. “Get the fuck out of my way.” Samuel hurried to oblige, and Bruce went to his office and retrieved an unopened cardboard box. Samuel recognized it. The mysterious package had arrived in the mail just the day before. Bruce tore the box open and his eyes greedily scanning the contents. Inside there were rows and rows of vials, carefully packaged so as not to break. He took one out, shivering with longing and anticipation. “Finally. 200 will be in reach. Yes…” He took out a syringe, exposed his thigh and swabbed it with alcohol, drew the steroids from one of the vials, and then with one sharp thrust jabbed it into himself, his eyes wild and racing as if he could feel the surge of testosterone in him. He opened and closed his fist, tensing, and smiled at the feeling. Slowly he put everything away and made his way downstairs. Samuel followed behind, morbidly curious. Bruce limbered up for a bit, waiting for another surge of confidence and strength to well up within him, and then put 210 on the bench one more time. He unracked, and then down and up. Easy. Too easy. He was incredulous. He upped the weight to 225. This was more of a challenge, and he pushed out eight solid reps. He started laughing, laughing, madly, marvelling at how easy all this had become. By the end of the session, he had made a new personal record on every lift. Afterwards, he shook out his limbs restlessly, feeling he had more energy to burn. He had a realization and turned his attention to the dumbbells. Bruce then performed set after set of bicep curls. After each set, he’d throw the previous set down and pick up a heavier one. Finally, at eighty pounds, he stalled. Dropping the dumbbells, he punched a hole in the wall, roaring with untamed aggression. Samuel made a mental note to record everything in his notebook: Bench press: 225 lbs Rows: 205 lbs Overhead press: 145 lbs Squat: 315 lbs Deadlift: 365 lbs Pull-ups: 15 (weighted with 20 lbs between his knees) Bruce didn’t even bothering showering after his workout. He went straight for an enormous meal whereupon several pounds of steak were consumed, and spent the next hour shirtless in the mirror, weighing and measuring himself. Two hundred pounds, seventeen inch arms. The next day, Samuel went to the meat shop after school. He looked in the window. There was his father, unshaven even on an off day, his hair just casually tousled, his sleeves rolled up, with no tie. He was laughing, confident and assured. Beside him on the counter was Vena. Bruce flexed his bicep and she squealed, feeling it with both of her long pale hands and then using them to probe his broadening shoulders, developing traps and deepening chest. She lifted the bottom of his shirt and ran the back of her hand down the abs that were forming. She reached down his pants and rubbed his groin, running her fingers along his growing penis as she unbuttoned his pants and pulled it out. Then, she pushed him back roughly. Startled, he fell, but she grabbed his apron, pulling it off. As Bruce rose again she stopped him by kissing him squarely in the lips, trying to unbutton his shirt. Bruce stopped her hand, and in one swift motion he ripped his shirt off, casually tearing it in two and throwing it away like a rag. He then grabbed her head and guided it purposefully towards his member, his face brimming with lust and aggression. Samuel put his ear to the window. “Suck it bitch. You want this? Yeah. Suck my fuckin’ cock and don’t you dare spit out.” Vena passionately obliged and Bruce closed his eyes, revelling in the pleasure. He kissed his bicep, then made Vena kiss it too. “Power. Fuckin’ feel this. This is power. And I’m not going to stop. I’m gonna keep growin’. I’m gonna get bigger and stronger and you will love it. You keep comin’ to the butcher and I’ll keep givin’ you my meat.” Samuel dropped to the ground, conflicted. What about principles? What about the code every man should have? What about Superman? He rode home, trying to fit this new version of his father with the father of his daydreams but with every passing minute his dream grew dimmer, the new dark side Bruce growing sharper and clearer in his mind at its expense. By the time he arrived home, the mild-mannered man in his head was replaced by a scowling figure, and he realized he was afraid. He was afraid of his father. He opened the door, and sure enough there was rattling in the ceiling.
  10. Parts 4-6 Parts 7-9 Parts 10-11 Hey y'all. I'm a long time lurker here but the kind of stories I like can be few and far in between so I decided I better write some of my own. I finished this story before posting so it's all done but I think there's more impact if it's split into parts. I'm gonna be posting 3-4 at a time, for a total of 11 parts. Hope y'all enjoy. The bell rang and Samuel shuffled out the door with the purposeful scurry of a practiced avoider. It was incredible to him how every geek in every high school there ever was had the same tactics for bully avoidance. It was even more incredible how resoundingly unsuccessful these tactics had been. He could feel Gordon’s eyes burning into the back of his head, his lowered head that marked him as the vulnerable, skinny geek he was. Samuel glanced back furtively. He had broken one of the cardinal rules of bully avoidance, but he couldn’t help himself. Both Gordon and he were the same height, 5’9”, and both were sophomores, but that was where the similarities stopped. Gordon had a full eighty pounds on him and was one of those teenagers who somehow looked like he was in his mid-twenties. A perfect golden dusting of stubble framed his broad jaw and mouth, and he had short and wavy locks of that same wheat gold hue that fell casually around in his head. He had an easy confidence to his movements rather than the awkwardness that had followed so many teenagers into puberty. And he knew how to dress to show it off. When we wasn’t in his jersey, Gordon always wore a short-sleeved polo that was just tight enough to stretch just a tiny bit every time he moved his arm. Even in the winter, he was fond of showing off how even the cold couldn’t kill the pump of his round, full biceps. Samuel felt himself freeze. An onlooker might have registered his non-motion as fear, but he was transfixed. Part of him loved being hurt, roughed-up, manhandled by Gordon. He secretly loved watching the big almost-man asserting his dominance, and if it happened to him, well, that was just front-row tickets. But it hurt. And it hurt as he was lifted by his collar and slammed against the wall. He had been bruised enough to be able to anticipate the aching he’d feel all morning the next day, and he hated himself for how powerless he himself was. So weak and puny compared to the brash, bold, muscular specimen pinning him up. Gordon smirked. “Hey dweeb. Your mom’s a whore.” Whore? That was a new one, amazingly. It was odd that it hadn’t come up before but Samuel could hardly finish his- “She just loves the dick. BAM! BAM! Oh, oh, oooohhhhh! Take me! Take me!” God. Gordon wrinkled his brow mockingly but all it accomplished was further furrowing it into a look of aggression and power. Before he could finish that thought Samuel was thrown to the ground and Gordon sauntered off followed by his two beefy lapdogs, two fellow jocks who knew staying in his wake would provide them with amusement and ways of asserting their own dominance. “I guess I should go get myself checked out,” Samuel thought as he picked himself up and dragged himself to the nurse’s office. He was a regular there. Often he was fine, but he felt it was wise to make sure each time. This time however the school nurse was busy with a freshman who looked like he had badly burned himself. “Not today, Samuel,” she said with a sigh. Without even looking at him, she reached a hand down into a drawer, drew out a slip of paper, signed it and gave it to him. “Whatever it is, just go home and deal with it. I’ve got three boys who decided it’d be smart to play chicken with a Bunsen burner.” The excuse to skip class was not lost on Samuel, and within five minutes the slip was in the hands of the school office secretary and he was out on the street riding his bike home. As he pulled up to his front yard though, something was off. In the window of his parents’ room, he saw his mom’s hand pressing on the glass. It quivered, and then stretched out and pressed itself a little bit higher. He decided that he wasn’t going to announce his presence on arrival. He held the front doorknob tightly as he put in his key and muffled the sound as he turned the lock. With the tiniest click, it opened and he gingerly slipped in, making sure to keep the doorknob turned and slowly release it back into its latch. He stood still for a moment. There was movement upstairs, he could feel it. He tiptoed up the stairs and to the closed door of his parents’ room and placed his ear. To his horror, Gordon’s rendition of his mother was painfully accurate. “Take me! Take – OH!” He mentally calculated. His dad was a meat shop owner (not a butcher, he always insisted) and today was Wednesday. He wasn’t going to be home until eight at the earliest. “OOOOHHHH!!!” Samuel cringed. He heard a long deep moan of a man and realized what this meant. It meant that he most definitely certainly couldn’t be found just outside the door and that this particular door was going to be opening soon – very soon. He scattered backward, almost falling but managing to catch himself lightly with his fingertips before very quickly but very quietly sprinting down the stairs. He opened the door, thanking his stars that he hadn’t locked it when he had entered, slipped out, closed it, picked up the bike, and brought it behind the fence where no one could see him. It wasn’t long before he heard the front door open, and slam shut again. Heavy footsteps rang out on the pavement and Samuel hurriedly slung his leg over his bike to look as if he had just arrived. Out of the fence appeared a very large, very mustachioed wheat blonde man. Samuel recognized him right away, and was filled with a jumbled blend of fear and disgust. It was Mr. Connors, the football coach and Gordon’s father. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mr. Connors had played football in college. He was an offensive lineman and looked every inch the part. 6’1”, 305 pounds, with a thick solid midsection but an enormous barrel chest and thick trunk legs that had earned him the nickname “The Immovable.” His normally sleeked back hair was clearly roughed up and there was no mistaking the cause. Samuel shrunk back a little but Mr. Connors noticed out of the corner of his eye and soon Samuel had a mass of football coach bearing down upon him. “Boy. Why aren’t you in school?” “I- I-,” Samuel knew telling the whole truth wouldn’t end well for him. Mr. Connors was notoriously protective of the football team and especially his son. Any accusations slung their way would certainly come back to bite Samuel, “I wasn’t feeling well and the nurse sent me home.” Mr. Connors huffed disapprovingly, twitching his golden walrus mustache. “I had a note, I gave it to the office,” Samuel added weakly. Not gracing him with a reply, Mr. Connors walked past Samuel, patting him condescendingly on the shoulder as he passed by, the casual blow practically toppling him over. Samuel watched for a long time as he walked away, the ridges on his back rippling the fabric of his tight fitted suit. Dejected, he slouched back over to his house, bringing in his bike and this time making no furtive movements. He could hear the patter of the shower upstairs. Samuel thought back. The signs had all been there. A new Armani handbag here, some new Prada shoes there. And his mother had seemed so satisfied lately. He realized that there had been a difference to her. She took more care to look good, spent over an hour in the morning applying makeup. Of course… She came down the stairs and he noticed just how radiant she was. Red headed with long wavy hair, curvy and healthy, but with an athletic trim. People often wondered aloud how his dad had bagged her. She was indeed a real catch. And it all made sense now, at least in a perverse sort of way. But still, Gordon Connors had been right, his mother was a wh- Samuel couldn’t bring himself to say the word. How should he say it? She was… unfaithful. Right then and there, Samuel decided he had to tell his dad. His dad was his role model, who he had aspired to be all his life. Mild-mannered, with a gentle face hidden behind a pair of neatly placed glasses. His dad, Bruce Davidson, was handsome, but subservient. He was tall, at 6’2”, but wiry and thin and flat just the way Samuel was, maybe 170 pounds at the most. He kept his chestnut brown hair parted and he was always clean shaven, without a speck of hair on his face. At the meat shop he took great care, practically bending over backwards serving his clients, presenting himself formally in a tie and vest even underneath his apron. His hands were quick and skilled, and he proved time and time again that he could use technique and well-cared for tools to cut through even thick bone. In everything he taught Samuel that strength wasn’t needed. It had seemed to Samuel that his dad’s success had proven this but still, somehow, that hadn’t satisfied his mother. He pushed his way out the door, grabbed his bike and started pedalling to the meat shop. The bell jingled as Samuel stepped in the door. “Bruce Davidson’s Fine Cuts.” His dad glanced his way quickly and smiled at Samuel, appreciating his presence before holding up his hand to show him he was dealing with customers. It took nearly fifteen minutes but finally they were face to face and Samuel relayed everything that had happened since he had first seen the hand in the window. Bruce’s face fell slowly with each passing minute, but he was quiet the whole time. He only had one question at the end. “Mr. Connors. What is he like?” “Big dad. Real big. He’s not super tall but just so much size on him. He has Gordon’s hair colour and a walrus mustache and this real intimidating look to him that just bears you down. And his arms are just so thick and his back strains his jacket so that…” He trailed off, realizing he’d outed himself, but Bruce was no longer paying attention, instead lost in thought. He looked like he had come to an understanding. “Go home, Samuel. Let your mother know I’ll be home at 8 as usual.” All seemed normal for the rest of the evening, if awkward on Samuel’s part. He wanted to scream “How has nothing changed!?” but everyone was so calm. He couldn’t believe his dad. Maybe his dad was weak. Maybe his mother was taking advantage of a meek man who was destined only to be a provider. He was able to keep a stony face, however, and it wasn’t until he was in his bedsheets that he screamed silently into his pillow and fumed. He tossed and turned, but couldn’t get to sleep. Soon enough, elevated voices rose from downstairs and he snuck over to the stairs to hear what was going on. His dad’s normally soothing baritone was raised for the first time in years. “That’s who you want Lisa? You want someone powerful, someone strong? Is that what it takes to satisfy you!? You swore I was enough, that you were happy with me! We laughed at all the jocks, back then, don’t you remember? In college!” “I needed it, Bruce, I need him. He’s just so strong, so powerful, so BIG! When he took me, I realized that was what I was missing all my life. Yeah, he took me. You want honest communication Bruce? Here it is. I’m pregnant, Bruce, and it’s not your child. Our boy is a weakling. He’s mild and gets bullied and doesn’t even bother defending himself. It’s clear where he gets it from. I want my child, my new child to grow into a big strong man like Rolf. He just takes what he wants. He doesn’t live his life to serve others and that’s the man this child will be.” Stomping, and then the slam of the door. And there was nothing for Samuel to do but cry into his pillow. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Samuel was woken up by the slam of the door. He could hear the beeping of a backing up truck outside and then the voices of men working. There was clattering downstairs he groggily he wondered if his house was being demolished, and if so, couldn’t it wait until Monday. A splash of water to the face made him more alert and he tiptoed down the stairs to see what was going on. There was Bruce, looking dishevelled for the first time in his life. He was still in the same clothes he had worn the previous day and his hair’s part had fallen apart, restoring his hair’s natural tousle. For the first time, Samuel could make out a faint five-o’-clock shadow around his father’s jaw and cheeks. He and several other men were carrying a power rack, straining with the weight and ruddy-faced. They made for the stairs leading to the basement carelessly crashing into objects around the house along the way, and slowly but surely carried it all the way down the stairs. A crash downstairs, and then soon afterwards, they came again for an Olympic weight set. Set on trees were more plates than Samuel had ever seen, even in the school gym where the jocks practically lived. “Samuel? What’s happening?” Samuel jumped. Behind him was Lisa, his mother, yawning in her midnight blue cashmere housecoat. “What’s with all this racket? It’s 6 AM,” she added, annoyed, so loud her son jumped. Bruce came up the stairs, finished with his work and motioning for the men to leave. He stared for a long time into Lisa’s eyes, his face fierce with some kind of resolution. He then checked his watch. “Samuel, fetch me my comb, please. It’s time for me to go to work.” Samuel did as he was told, and Bruce, quickly combed his hair into a rough part, not quite as neatly as before, and staring the whole while into his wife’s eyes. The tension was palpable but for all his determination he broke first, dropping his comb onto the table by the TV, grabbing his apron and heading out the door. Lisa yawned again and went back upstairs. Having woken so early on a Saturday morning, Samuel let his curiosity get the better of him and looked into the basement. Down there, all of the junk had been pushed and stacked to the wall and in the clear space left was a magnificent powerlifting gym. There was several large bars, trees covered in plates from the tiny 2.5 pound ones up to 45s, red rubber plates and black steel plates. There was a power rack, a bench, flooring, and dumbbells up to 120 pounds lined up neatly in rows. Samuel tried to pick up a 45 pound plate and nearly dropped it. Gingerly he put it back and picked up the bar. He remembered watching the jocks do the bench press and he tried it. The bar felt heavy as he tried to push it up, but he made it, his arms shaking violently as he did. He was too scared to try any more though. This really wasn’t his thing. He jumped up to the bar of the power rack and tried to pull himself up. He heaved and kicked his legs but struggle as he might he couldn’t pull off a single one. He let go, landing lightly but hating himself for it. He had always been such a quiet little wimp. Not even all of this gear could change that, and he was certain it wouldn’t change his dad either. His mother was right, compared to Gordon and Mr. Connors, both of them were worthless. He couldn’t spend the whole day feeling sorry for himself, however. Having missed some classes there was a lot of make-up homework to do, and so Samuel lost himself in his studies while the day passed. Evening came with a slam of the door. He swiftly ran down, curious to see the state of his dad. He seemed to have cleaned up a little while he was at work. His hair was back in the neat part it was before, and his clothes seemed to have been smoothed over several times. Over the course of the day however, his scruff had grown out even more, outlining his features handsomely. He seemed out of sorts, but it was different from his expression that morning somehow. Noticing Samuel, he called out. “That lady with the long black hair, Vena. She couldn’t keep her hands off of my face! And making advances on me. As if I’d stoop to that level. Samuel, you’ve got to stay loyal to your loved ones. We men need to have a code, to have principles. Always remember that.” Samuel nodded vigorously and Bruce stepped past him making his way down into the basement. For a moment Samuel was reminded of the way Mr. Connors had pushed him by and walked away the day before, but he shook his head and rid his mind of it. His dad was nothing like that. Not long after, he heard grunting below. He snuck down, taking a peek at what was happening, and he was surprised at what he saw. Bruce’s face was a mask of fury, and he pulled every rep with what was practically a roar. It was anger, all rage, channelled into moving the bar up and down. He had stripped off his vest and button-up, having tossed them aside into an uncharacteristically messy heap while he worked out in only his undershirt and pants. Samuel had a small gasp of anticipation. Sweat shined from Bruce’s furrowed brow as he forcefully shifted the weights, roaring with effort. He carefully counted the plates on each of the exercises his dad did: Bench press: 135 lbs Rows: 115 lbs Overhead press: 85 lbs Squat: 155 lbs Deadlift: 175 lbs Pull-ups: 6 He made a mental note to check out what the jocks at school did. One last long growl as his dad pulled the bar from the ground one last time and dropped it. That was Samuel’s cue. He tiptoed up the stairs and pulled out the notebook he had been holding for school. He noted the weights of the lifts he had just seen, hoping his parents would think he was just doing some homework. “Hey there, hard at work?” Samuel snapped his book shut. There was Bruce, dripping with sweat, running from his now-messy hair down the side of his face and dripping from the scruff on his chin. He had work clothes in his arms. Samuel opened his mouth, thinking fast about what to reply, but there was no need. Bruce was already making his way upstairs and soon enough there were the sounds of the shower. Dinner came soon enough and Bruce was again clean-shaven and back to his impeccable self. A few words were exchanged about school and whatnot but Samuel had no intention of bringing up any of the uncomfortable events that had recently occurred, and it seemed the same for his mom, who continued with her meal in the same bored fashion she had spent the rest of her day. He finished his meal as he was always taught to do but then noticed that his dad’s plate was full. Hadn’t he been eating? He sat in silence watching Bruce finish one plate, and another. Lisa always made enough food to keep for leftovers in case anyone was hungry later, usually herself when she didn’t feel like cooking lunch. At the end there was nothing left, and to Samuel’s surprise, Bruce got up and went rummaging in the fridge. He eventually settled on the carton of milk, and poured himself two glasses to top off his large meal. “Thanks kindly for the meal, Lisa,” he remarked cheerfully, as he started doing the dishes. That evening, instead of sitting down on his reclining chair to read as usual, Bruce went to the computer and started browsing the internet. When it got late and Samuel headed up to bed he was still at it, intently looking at whatever it was he was looking at.
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